DRIFTER

                               By Ron L Johnson II

                                       Chapter 1: Origins

“Every object tells a story.”

                        -Henry Ford

I feel like a constant current streaking at high velocity. Where am I going and why? What ever is happening, I do sense that I’m existing at a frequency few could fathom. To understand what I’m experiencing, imagine the vibration of a plucked guitar string amplified a million times. Why is this happening to me? Am I …and then a scene from my past forms around me. The desire to understand what is occurring fades as a childhood scene appears; the moment is of myself in third grade talking to my principle and special education teacher. It was just the three of us talking about movies.

I was in special education because of learning disabilities, such as a severe Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD): Dyslexia (a reading disorder), Dyscalculia (disability with mathematical comprehension), Dyspraxia (often in conjunction with Dyslexia and Dyscalculia: a difficulty with both written and verbal instructions) and Dysgraphia (a writing disability). In the Special ED class, I see myself sitting at a desk and looking at an illustrated behind the scenes book about monster movies. My principle, Dr. Schmitt, is standing next to my desk and explaining how Lon Chaney had the uncanny ability to perform like a chameleon in silent films as I listen intently.

“In Phantom of the opera, Lon Chaney used fish hooks and wire to achieve such gruesome make up effects.” Dr. Schmitt said as he pointed to a photograph of Lon Chaney in my book. “He was a pioneer of makeup effects,” remarked Dr. Schmitt to his own comment.  

As rapid as this childhood scene appeared, it disappears allowing the materialization of my past to take on another form. I see my first family dog princess; by the way, I did not name her that. Then a different scene develops of my favorite movie monster Godzilla destroying Tokyo. Is Godzilla a metaphor that represents the Atomic bomb? Subatomic energy is all around us, seeming harmless and miniscule. Energy that poses no real threat, until the weak and strong forces with in the atom are tampered with to unleash total devastation.

By using Einstein’s theory of special relativity, which is energy equals mass multiplied by the speed of light, multiplied by the speed of light (E=MC Squared). Radioactive physicist Lise Meitner devised away to burst a Uranium atom. Since energy equals mass and mass equals energy, Meitner along with Otto Hahn began to ponder the energy trapped with in tiny matter, and she suggested away to bombard neutrons into an already crammed uranium atom’s nucleus; which caused the nucleus to blast apart with a one hundred million electromagnetic burst.

According to Einstein, energy can not be destroyed and as we now know energy equals mass and mass is the quantity of matter. Is he right, are there no exceptions? Perhaps other universes or even our own, do not always abide by the same laws. We use to think light could not bend with the exception of a prism. Until Einstein’s theory of General Relativity predicted that vast amounts of gravity can also curve light and Einstein proved this with a total eclipse of the Sun in 1922. His theory of General Relativity also predicted black holes in 1916, and the term black hole was coined in 1967 by astronomer John wheeler. Then, in 1971 the discovery of black holes, gravity gone insane, changed mainstream science once again. It has been calculated that Black holes possess such immense gravity that these holes in space time have the ability to stretch: twist, bend, and consume anything in their path. Once matter or energy enters the black hole’s warping outer layer, which is called the event horizon, nothing can escape: not even light is reflected; which is why the hole is stark black. When matter enters the tiny center of a black hole, the singularity, the miniscule hole devours it, or perhaps, the matter is transferred somewhere else.

Wait a minute……Maybe this is the explanation I have been looking for; am I being warped while being pulled into some-kind-of-hole in space time; yet, still able to think? Perhaps I am traveling through a worm hole (a kind of portal). Steven Hawking went against his own theory by saying that he was wrong about black holes destroying everything once sucked through it; instead, he recalculated that black holes maybe transferring the matter somewhere else. Perhaps, I am being transferred? Or maybe my molecules have been altered to become the frequency of light violently vibrating and traveling the galaxy in electromagnetic waves. Wait a second.........???????????????? Where am I now? Can’t Think as fast…………Can’t comprehend at all. Everything going dark…………VERY, VERY Dark!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...???????????????????????.........................

Where am I? My vision is coming to me in flashes of bright light and then becoming dark for a brief moment. Everything is fuzzy and bright, followed by darkness. This strange occurrence keeps repeating. Am I blinking? I must have lost consciousness. Now I’ m not as disoriented. It’s becoming easier to think. I’m looking down at….hard to tell what, my vision is a green blur. I think it’s grass? My sight is becoming slowly focused like a camera lens. It is grass and I am in the shade. As I tilt my head, I gaze upon massive branches coated in a lush green, I realize everything happened the way it was supposed to. Successfully, I have drifted into the past and now I am sitting under an oak tree with my back resting against the oak’s girthy truck. The large tree is masking me with shade while soothing air cools my face that is drenched in sweat. As I scan my surroundings, the Sun blazes with absolute madness to reveal a field of sunflowers. There are also sunflowers sporadically placed in the grass under the tree’s shade on the hill, but now my vision is becoming more focused. Not as many sunflowers in the shade; yet, enough to notice since my vision is starting to reach clarity……..Finally, I have full awareness.

A tranquil breeze begins to comfort me while I rest against this tree like the back of a couch with my legs stretching out on the grass. Good thing I am wearing pants, otherwise my legs would be itchy. My vantage point of the sunflower field is pretty good because the tree and myself are on a hill that over looks a field burning yellow. Below the hill, the sunflowers grow tall like corn crops. However, the scattered sunflowers on the hill remain smaller, as if the tree refuses them to grow any taller. Maybe the Oak tree is insecure; perhaps this is why it diffuses the sun’s rays with its colossal branches and leaves. Intentionally, the oak tree disables the hill’s sunflowers to grow tall like the field in order to be the only one emerging on the hill.

At this time, my vision has shifted from the oak tree to the small shaded sunflowers. As I sit and stare; the tiny sunflowers on the hill start to remind me of something, of someone. In a trance, I pick one up. Oh no, I just remembered someone I have been trying to forget. I recall how her hair is as yellow as this sunflower I am holding. Her hair color was the only real thing about her, everything else was fake. Her personality was disguised by anti-depressants. Anti-depressants basically made up her personality, without them, she was almost non-existent. With anti-depressants, her altered personality insinuated that her spirit burned vibrant with life.

To compensate for her superficiality, she used family photographs as a tool to convince people she was happy; I received the feeling that this was a successful method of conveying happiness to most people. Except when she showed the family imagery to me, I saw through the deception because I am a photographer. However, she still tired to convince me by explaining, “This is a picture of me and my brother having a snow ball fight. We had a blast!”  Her explanations were vague and typical, but to her and most people, it gave a convincing since of normalcy. I recall her explaining other photographs to me, “Here’s me and my dad having fun at a church picnic. Here’s me and my mom and dad at a church fish fry, good times.”

         She despised religion and hated her dad even more, but she acted like everything was fine. Instead of trying to be a painter, she should have been an actor because she was usually very convincing; although, when you are bipolar, your mood constantly shifts. Happy, sad, she jumped back and forth from the masks of comedy and tragedy. What would she be this day or minute? Her moods could shift even by the second. She was like a social cuttlefish, changing, adapting to who ever she was with by telling you just what you wanted to hear. Well, I had finally heard enough. I never fully fell for her bull shit, instead, I kind of denied reality when I was with her. She made me feel euphoric; the feeling was stronger than drugs and alcohol. At times, she made me reach a peak of happiness, until I grounded my self back to reality when ever I became sick of her stupid charades.

She loves to manipulate people like a gorgeous goddess controlling the men that worship her. Her beauty was away to trap you and numb your logic. The cerebral cortex just did not work with her. In fact, nothing did, unless she wanted it to. Instead, the only thing that would work was the limbic system in the brain, which is the region of the brain that controls emotions and behaviors. These regions lit up like a super nova most of the time when I was with her because she new how to activate this part of the brain. She was   like a Nero-surgeon performing a lobotomy that could turn a reasonable man into a zombie ready to do her bidding. Sometimes, she even had this effect on women.

It was bizarre to think that someone with such manipulation over other people could not control her own emotions. Anti-depressants became her best friend, the only true friend she had. She also lacked the ability to control her art work. She struggled to paint because she did not possess passion and talent. Her words seemed strong, yet her conviction was weak. She tired to act like an artist to sound intriguing and deep, but really, she was a dry oasis that posed as a refreshing mirage. To others, she was a confident artist that would have a great influence. In reality, her ability to put up a believable front is the only art she excelled at and she had become a master.

She became especially alluring when people were vulnerable, causing people to see what they want; eventually all I saw was a miserable tormented spirit that desperately wanted the attention of her father. Her parents gave gifts and money but never love, so all she did was perform for attention and when she got it she thrived. When know one was watching she withered like a dying plant needing sunlight. The lack of attention caused her to be hollow, almost on the verge of suicide. At times, she can even seem like a sociopathic vampire because when she felt melancholy, she would try to bring anyone who is happy down; as she fed off their gloom, which occasionally cheered her up. If her depression became an extensive duration, she would sometimes paint because she thought gloominess helped her art. Actually, the only thing that would help her art is if someone else would have done the painting for her.

She tried to be like Van Gogh; only, this is one thing she could not convincingly perform. Van Gogh painted veraciously every day and night non-stop and thrived from talking about it. He had little patience for those who only painted when they were motivated. She was the antitheses of Van Gogh because she never painted until a project for class was due or as I mentioned before, sometimes when she was depressed. She usually tired to copy Van Gogh’s style and failed miserably; though, passing all her classes with A’s. This is an example of how important college is to an artist. How outrageous, a piece of paper that says you can paint or photograph. A degree should not speak for an artist because their art should articulate for them.

Some of the art students that earn Bachelors or Master Degrees have not learned patience for the process and respect for the subject matter. All these graduates have   learned is to crave prestige from a degree and well-paying job that will just cause them to flourish from materialism. Society may praise these graduates for striving to be accepted; even though art graduates should be trying to become better artists by developing their own style through a slow progression. Instead, they are commonly taught to quickly become apathetic commercial conformists. The darkroom and canvas are being replaced by computers, which still takes a particular kind of skill to use, but the results are fast and the norm is to become another Bob Ross of the art world. Trust me; we do not need any more “happy little trees.”

        Some people just want acceptance; some people just want to blend in, even if it means lying to everyone including themselves. The last time I saw her was at her apartment. I remember her store bought replica of Starry Night hanging over her couch like a family portrait of pseudo-smiles; now Megan Christy, I am the one smiling, and it is not fake because I am about to meet one of the greatest artists that ever lived, as he was living.

The time is almost right to meet a master, yet; how I arranged to meet him is complicated. Allow me to rephrase that, it is lengthy to explain but simple to make happen now that I know how. Van Gogh will be first on my list to meet along with many others such as Diane Arbus, Stanley Kubric, and Albert Einstein. All on my list of admired thinkers that changed the way we view people, such as Arbus’s edgy portraiture. Or in Kubric’s case, the way we view society, free will, and the future; or in Einstein’s case, how we perceive the universe.

Wait a minute; I have not even explained how I am able to achieve such a remarkable accomplishment. Or maybe I should explain how I learned to channel my abilities. I better start with the basics first; my name is Warren Navarro; how I will be able to meet Van Gogh is a question you may be asking your self. You are also probably wondering why this girl, Megan Christy, plagues my mind. Dooo not worry; all these questions will eventually have answers. I know how it can be overwhelming at times to have an accumulating amount of questions unanswered. It may even cause anxiety, although; I will never take medication to suppress how I feel. I am learning to deal with anxiety and depression on my own.

 I will start to ease any anxiety with a question you probably had since the beginning. How will I speak to Van Gogh? Fortunately for me, he speaks English along with three other languages French, German, and Dutch (his native tug). How did I arrive in Van Gogh’s period? I used psychometry to drift through time of course. Well, it wasn’t always that obvious to me. By the way, psychometry is a psychic ability that channels recorded energy form an object that has been touched by a person or group of people, or by a thing or things, in order to read the history of that object. Basically, anything that someone or something has handled or touched for a short or long interval; for most psychometrists, a watch or necklace usually works well. However, I can learn a tremendous amount of information about a person who has handled something for only a few seconds: for instance, a stapler.

I gained this ability genetically; eventually, I became more in tune with my surroundings and abilities which enabled me to grasp the concept that portals to other realms are available all around us; these portals just have to be released from objects by manipulating its recorded energy. The portals are filled with anti-matter and matter particles that are constantly colliding causing anti-matter to burst with energy that swiftly travels back in time, were as matter alone travels forward in time at a normal rate. Where the portals lead depends on the history of that object. I would assume that when I travel back to my present, the object that led me there will trace me back, when I touch it using my psychometry ability, to unleash a portal containing hyperactive matter particles (which rapidly travel forward) that remember my specific palace in the present. If I could not find the exact object, maybe an object containing similar memory would still serve the same purpose; hopefully not altering my present state.

My grandma and dad were both Psychometrists. They passed on this astounding gift to me, which I have coined my Psychomic Touch.  However, they could not drift through time; drifting is a skill that was discovered on my own. My first recollection of psychometry happened to me when I was six years old, eating at my Grandma’s house. My Grandma emigrated from Mexico with her parents when she was ten. I have the feeling that they were illegal immigrants but my dad never discusses this carefully left out detail. If they were illegal immigrants, it would not faze me because I understand how people would want to escape poverty. Plus, I would not exist if they had not illegally immigrated. Although, if illegal immigrants are not regulated it could over populate   America causing it to become another jobless second or third world country, but a wall to divide people will do just that, in a country that does not need any more segregation.

My grandma was a fascinating woman and a culinary savant. Since my mom left Dad and I around my fourth birthday, grandma had always cooked for me, and sometimes for the both of us.  She made the best enchiladas and she also made home made coco that could knock ten pairs of socks off. My Grandma’s name before marriage was Elena Marie Navarro. After marriage, her name lost its magnificence and became Elena Marie Lester.

When I was younger, my dad worked lengthy hours and I stayed with my grandma a lot. One Saturday afternoon, my grandma had been making enchiladas and some of her wonderful hot coco. She was stirring and intensely pondering something. As my tastes buds anticipated her marvelous cuisine, I remember telling her about the movie, Godzilla vs. King Kong. I was annoyed that after a brutal battle King Kong made Godzilla retreat to the ocean (in the American version), which pretty much hinted towards King Kong winning. Of course, this was complete Clydesdale shit because Godzilla would have won, had the movie taken a realistic route.

In the Japanese version Godzilla won, except the Japanese called the monster Gojira, which, actually, sounds better. American film makers translated the name of my favorite monster wrong because we have a way of taking other cultures and molding it to fit our own. American culture is one enormous mutt. In 1954, when the original Godzilla was released in Japan titled “Gojira” it became a huge success. Not surprisingly, the anti-nuclear allegory that Gojira represented was seen as a problem for American film makers and audiences.

Through American propaganda, Gojira became “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” and was released in 1956. In the American version, Godzilla became just another monster. The Japanese knew what the monster represented, to them; Gorjira is a metaphor that represents the Atomic bomb. When Gorjira devastates Tokyo, the obliteration symbolizes the horrendous nuclear weapons that were used to bomb Nagasaki and Hiroshima, which approximately annihilated over one hundred and sixty thousand lives. I wonder how many of the atomic victims were innocent children, women and college students? The atomic bomb has only been used twice in history to fight World War II, once on Nagasaki and once on Hiroshima, and fortunately nuclear weapons have not been dropped since.

In some ways, I understand why the atomic bomb was created. Americans had to find a way to defeat Hitler and those who sided with this sinister threat, but who will save the world from another possible nuclear holocaust. There is a fear that still haunts the world because one day another cold war could happen again, only to become warm with atomic destruction. If Einstein only knew his equation for special relativity, E=MC squared, would lead to the creation of the Atomic bomb; he would have never revealed it to the world. Einstein took this guilt with him to the grave, and some where he probably still dreads all the destruction his equation caused.

However, Einstein over looked one tiny aspect with special relativity, He never factored in anti-matter. Theoretical Physicists Paul Dirac created anti-matter in a lab by using Atom Smashers (Particle Accelerators). These Atom Smashers bashed around particles on a sub-atomic level to create anti-matter and it was observed that anti-matter travels back wards after colliding with matter; instead of forwards in time. Paul Dirac added anti-matter to Einstein’s special relativity equation to make it E=+ - MC squared. The negative represents anti-matter.

Anyways, I’m getting off track. Where was I? Oh yeah, my grandma was making enchiladas. She was also stirring her Mexican heart out by preparing her exceptional homemade coco. After stirring, my grandma came over to me with a piping hot cup of her sweet delight and some enchiladas smothered in a brownish red meaty sauce. The coco tasted like a culinary goddess had blessed it with divine taste. After I drank her hot coco my taste buds did back flips and one-handed pushups. Then I tasted her enchiladas and my taste buds started to “style and profile” like Ric Flair, Wwwooooo! My taste buds proceeded to feel sorry for people who never had the opportunity to taste my grandma’s enchilada magnum opus: her “Moon Lit Sonata,” her “2001 Space Odyssey,” her “Fahrenheit 451.”

Then I noticed she had left behind the huge wooden spoon used to stir her delicious coco. I picked up the large wooden spoon as my peripheral vision noticed her observing me. At the time, I did not think about it too much, although; when I picked up the spoon, imagery immediately flickered through my mind like a projector. I said,

“Grandma, did you have a dream about Grandpa leaving you?”

Grandma gazed upon me with both joyful and melancholy eyes. As she stared with wonder, she tried to speak, though, the only verbal response was a soft whisper.

“What?”

“Did you have a dream about Grandpa last night,” I asked again?

She could not respond because her emotions temporally robbed her of a vocal response. It was as if her voice had left her. Even though she was awestruck by emotions, I felt like I had taken her voice along with her thoughts.

“Grandma, why was he wearing a black suit with stripes,” I questioned?

Grandma had dropped to her knees and I jumped up from my chair with ultra-concern. I rested my hand tenderly on her shoulder.

“Are you okay Grandma?”    

She held me tight sobbing and finally regained her voice as if I gave it back to her.

“Do you remember anything else?” She whispered in a shaky voice.

“You had a drink in your hand like Grandpa.”

“Oh my god! Dear lord. I can’t…I can’t believe it. I can’t believe. Warren, you’re like me. You’re like me. You’re like me.”

My grandma kept repeating this. She was mesmerized by my ability as she would tell me later on in life. When she was six, her psychometry was not active. For some reason, her gift did not become noticeable until she started puberty at the age of eleven. At eleven, her psychometry readings just recalled insignificant details such as what someone might have had for breakfast or lunch. Important conflicts or situations in their life were not specified yet. In fact, Grandma did not get the intricate detail that I had until she reached sixteen. For me, at six years old, my psychomic touch was so powerful that my grandma’s dream was like watching a movie in my mind and no subtlety was left out. At anytime, the imagery could be vividly projected again just like before at the speed of a thought.

Not only was she shocked and excited about my first observed psychometry reading; she was also deeply upset because my Grandpa had left her a little after my fifth birthday. He had left her for another woman. Annoyingly, it was my grandma’s younger sister. At the time, my Grandma’s sister was living with them because she was suffering financially. To return the favor, she made Grandma suffer for the rest of her life.

My Grandpa committed adultery in my Grandma’s house with that sleazy sister that is still living today. My sweet grandma actually caught them in the act. I wish she would have lost it and shot that fucking alcoholic bastard and her worthless sis. But she did not have a gun. She would not allow guns in her home and she did not have a temper either; at least, not that I saw. About two years later, my grandma’s loyal sister betrayed my grandpa by sleeping around, and one day that coward sun of a bitch swallowed the barrel of a twelve-gage shotgun. A gun that grandma’s sister allowed in the house; a gun that he used to paint the wall and ceiling above their bedpost like an abstract Expressionist.  

Unfortunately, these events led to my sweet grandma becoming an alcoholic; although, she never drank around me. As a matter of fact, she was so careful about concealing her addiction that I never thought about it much, until after her death. Now that I think of it, the dream my Grandma had, the one I saw in my mind after touching the spoon, hinted towards alcoholism pretty hardcore. It just took me a while to understand that my grandma had a drink in her hand instead of my grandpa, which symbolized her problem. Eventually, my grandma told me that the dark white pin striped suit my grandpa was wearing in her dream was the suit he wore on their first date to dinner and a horse racing track. My kind grandma was taken to horse race track on their first date so my grandpa could gamble; he was such a pathetic prick. That is why my six-year-old psychometry reading left my grandma in an awe of momentary mixed emotions. It caused her to relive the past and all that reliving probably made her thirsty for the rest of her life.

There were days I have come close to kicking Grandpa’s grave stone over. There were even days when I wished he would not have shot himself so I could have done it for him. Her drinking originated from his legacy of torment he selfishly left her with when he took his life. He also left her with unpaid bills. Rage began to swell inside of me, overwhelmingly, like a spreading blaze in my mind. Then I realized that vengeance would be completely negative. Besides, my grandma would not want me to take the situation into my own hands. However, I often wonder if my grandpa had not committed suicide, would I have killed him because his selfish betrayal and rejection still would have caused my grandma to commit a gradual suicide that would last the rest of her life by drowning in alcohol and sorrow.

I tried to view things more positively after my Grandpas death. I do not think I would have done anything to drastic to him, if he were still living; that was just anger talking and that is all I ever let rage get away with. I have never even told off my Grandma’s sister. In fact, I have never seen her since I was six but for some reason my dad and family still visit her. If my dad did that to my mom with her sister in our house, I would never want anything to do with either of them again. That is why I changed my last name from Lester to Navarro because that coward held my grandma’s last name hostage in obscurity when marriage made Navarro her maiden name, and passed Lester on to my dad and me. Using her name helps keep apart of her with me and at times, I still sense her essence.

My grandma and grandpa are gone, yet my Grandma’s sister is still living her worthless life and sometimes I want to give it meaning by smacking her or at least spitting on her. Or even burning her house down, but I realize that this is just fury trying to get the better of me and my grandma would never have taken revenge. Unfortunately, I am not the sympathetic person my grandma was, and if my grandpa was still living, I would brutally articulate how he has done wrong, that is of course, after I broke his ribs. Regrettably, I did not even have the chance to yell at him or threaten him before he died. Then I realized his death made me happy because after all, my Grandpa was out of my life, at least my life here on earth.

Not all of my memories of Grandpa were negative. He did introduce me to learning. He always watched nature documentaries on channel 9, while slamming back mixed drinks and breathing cigarette smoke like a dragon. This is probably the reason why I am obsessed with learning, even when I am intoxicated. He even gave me my first drink when I was four. It kicked like a spooked zebra because it was bourbon with a splash of cola. At the time, my taste buds were in momentary shock as I recall my head jerking away from the glass in my hand. My taste buds expected something sweeter with maybe a hint of sourness or spice but not sheer bitterness.

I remember grandpa finishing the rest of the drink in a relishing gulp, while playing solitaire and watching a documentary about some kind of tribal society using a hallucinogenic drug called beetle nut. I have been intrigued about this drug ever since, but will never do research on it because it might captivate me enough to start a new addiction, even though this drug may not be available in the United States, it might intrigue me to do other hallucinogens. Then again, people who have horrible imaginations use hallucinogens. My imagination may have been genetically given to me by my Grandma; were as my grandpa gave me the urge to drink, but at least he taught me to enhance my curiosity, which is the urge to learn.

One thing is for certain, when I am drunk I act more like my grandpa. I’m not exactly sure how my grandma behaved, but it must have been calm because I was around her all the time, and she never slurred, or seemed hung over. She always appeared to be coherent. Conversely, my grandpa must have been a subconscious roll model. The ability to hide my depression and frustrations when I am hung over is beyond me. My Grandpa was the same way. The feeling of overwhelming doom hangs over me until I recover the next day or two. Although, I never displace my anger on other people like that tyrant did, while both intoxicated and hungover. In spite of this, he never physically abused me; yet, verbally he scrutinized me. Actually, on both sides of the family, my grandfathers ruled the house hold with fascist iron dictating fists. Yet, both sides treated their fathers like Gods and to speak differently would result in lashings from a leather belt.

Both sides of the family also carry anxiety in their genes, and I am willing to bet my parent’s childhood environment had something to do with their behaviors as well as their heredity; unfortunately, they passed on their neurotic behavior and addictive personalities to me. Some members of my dad’s side of the family drink heavily; others do not drink at all because those who did had to stop before they drowned. Since the concoction for depression was already flowing through my blood stream, weather I drink or not, I thought, might as well drink to numb myself from at least some of the pain but now I know it only adds to it.

Thinking about my childhood sometimes makes me thirsty, and when I awake my thirst is unquenched. On one dehydrated afternoon at the age of 18, a surprise was waiting for me. I awoke feeling miserable, yet relieved as if I had attended an unconscious therapy session. I recall pondering, “Why do I feel like I have ventilated years of anguish? And why…..Oh know, I’m lying in a puddle of my own vomit.” That was why I felt so terrible, I was ultra-dehydrated. I wanted to get up and have a glass of ice water, but was too fatigued, and fell back asleep on my bed that was drenched in my regurgitation.

When I awoke for the second time the air was sour and stale. I did not have the strength to walk; as a result, I crawled to the bathroom and barely managed to become bipedal. I sucked down some water from the facet, peeled my shirt from my adhesive sour stained body and tossed it on the bathroom floor. I splashed water on my face and chest and then gulped down more water. I lathered my face with soap and washed it off, followed by drying off with the hand towel. What was I, some kind of vagabond swine, no; I was someone who was lost in his own body and thought that alcohol would help me find my way. It never does, but I did find a clean shirt when I walked back into my room.

As I put my shirt on, my mind started to contemplate how thankful I was for my dad to be out of town. If he saw the aftermath caused by my drinking binge, he might have banished me from my own home; instead of asking me wants wrong, or why would I do this. He never has been much of a communicator. Just as I was about to rip the sheets off my bed and wash out the dried vomit, my eyes surveyed the room lit by diffused light that tried to fully penetrate through the white blinds with radiating fury; though, the sun’s rays could only form a glowing aura that emitted from the window.  

Abruptly, something subconsciously drove me to open the blinds. As I allowed light to flood my bedroom, the floor was entirely illuminated; which allowed me to notice a bottle of bourbon with only a fourth remaining, a half- consumed liter of cola and eight beer cans. Three of the beer cans were of a different brand than the six-pack of red wolf, which means, I must have done a late-night alcohol raid through the house, only to find three beers. In the middle of the clutter lie my note book, I remember thinking at the time writer’s block plagued me. For months, I struggled to express myself until that night, while I experienced a drunk induced black out; my inebriated thoughts were pored onto paper with infuriated expression.

During the age of eighteen, my note books were being neglected. It was the height of my Attention Deficit Disorder; I could barely concentrate on a movie. So, when I noticed my note book lying amongst the clutter of bottles and cans I thought, did I write some unconscious thoughts at the zenith of a drinking marathon? I sat with my legs crossed below me on the floor looking at my 8 by ten mars black hard cover note book. My hands reached out and when they brushed against my note book, my psychomic touch caused all of my recorded thoughts in my book to stream through my mind.

Almost simultaneously, I filtered out all the written thoughts that were familiar until something obscure stood out, but my psychometry could not see what it was. Perhaps it was because my mind had been too intoxicated to think clearly. So, I opened the note book and turned towards the end. Written furiously, it states, how can someone escape this realm and pass on into the next, leaving behind their responsibilities, causing the living to drown in wretchedness; without even being remotely remorseful for others; yet, he who has selfishly taken his own life is seen as a saint by the rest of the family. In this life, his crimes are unanswered for and have taken someone I hold dear; leaving me with many questions, leaving me alone with many lonely thoughts.

I slightly recall writing this introduction. It was before complete intoxication, although, I do not remember much after writing the introduction. When the alcohol violently kicked in, I vaguely recollect throwing beer cans around in a drunken tantrum. As I proceed to recall some of the night’s events my mind started to project an image of me throwing my cordless phone. Instantly, I looked at the cordless phone receiver’s base, and it was not there, so I looked the opposite direction and lying on the ground was my shattered cordless phone. Another memory of the inebriated night flickered for a moment, which was of me sitting with my back leaning against the wall with my legs spread out. There I sobbed and picked up the book again to therapeutically write out the rest of my feelings while heavily under the influence.

After I tried to recall more details from the night before, I continued to read more of the note book.  My note book has ideas for movies, stories, and photographs. Some of my notes are even hard for me to read, but after awhile of careful analysis, I can usually translate what was written, accept for the thoughts written when intoxicated. Dyscrephia is a writing disability that causes me to have illegible hand writing and many miss-spellings and scratch outs. Dyscrephia is linked to the learning disability dyslexia.

Dyslexia is a learning disability that causes me to jumble words and digits when I read. When someone gives me driving instructions my mind struggles to comprehend. Sometimes my audio comprehension can be just as bad as my visual and to struggle with the audible comprehension of words is a learning disability called Dysnomia; which is also linked to Dyslexia. Now my visual comprehension for reading a novel or watching a movie (and listening) has drastically improved, accept when dealing with simple mathematics, which is linked to the math learning disability dyscalculia. Dyscalculia makes it difficult to add my tip to a bill: and forget trying to use a coupon. Or trying to figure out my bar tab; oh wait, that’s a learning disability linked to alcoholism.

Not only do I have Dyslexia, Disnomia, Dyscalculia, and Dyscrephia, I also have Attention Deficit Disorder. ADD makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on certain tasks such as school, driving directions, or performing jobs. I notice the less I drink the more focused I am. These four disabilities have severely affected my life and on top of that, I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder which can definitely distract me from learning because of a constant conflict between my OCD thoughts and what I should be doing.

When I have applied for jobs in person some employers or companies expect people to fill the application out on the spot, and dyscrephia (writing disability) makes this a daunting task. I can complete the applications; however, it is filled with many scratch outs and misspelled words. I tend to write in cursive and print which confuses people, but makes perfect sense to me. If I have time to take it home I write many rough drafts, then I carefully copy it to the application. On average, it takes me a few hours, which would take most people about a half an hour to complete. Most of the time, I still can not avoid mistakes, even after a few rough drafts.

Writing birthday and Christmas cards are also complex tasks for me to do, so I usually type it out on a computer and then try to rewrite it on the card, but I still have scratch outs and misspelled words. I sometimes recall friends or family members wanting to give a joint birthday card even after I try to explain I might make mistakes, they still would insist on giving the same card together. The end result would be a frustrated friend or family member yelling at me for making mistakes even though I tried warning them. If someone yells at me, or gives the slightest attitude when I am trying to do a simple task, it only amplifies the learning disabilities. Here is an example of my sober dyscrephia in a wedding card that I recently wrote for my cousin and his wife.

(And in the photo copy with wide out of what was already there from hallmark)

People have trouble empathizing with something they can not comprehend. If only they could understand that I realize most people can not invent new ways of looking at the same thing. I have always been analytical and observant, although; my learning disabilities have eclipsed my imaginative thought process. To make up for having learning disabilities, I have always been able to perceive many possibilities; this ability becomes useful with science and art. Since I can view my surroundings with many possible scenarios, it was only natural to become infatuated with photography. Most people can not see beyond what is there, and I try not to scrutinize them for this. My learning disabilities have humbled me. However, ridicule is something that has scourged my life. If people can not relate to a disability, chances are they are not going to understand, and this might cause an insecure urge to mock those that are different.

Back to what I was saying before about what I wrote in my note book while under an alcoholic fit of rage. Usually, I can translate some kind of coherency   from my own writings, although there are times when it takes me longer to retrieve meaning from what I wrote; most of the time it is because I was loaded while I wrote. Even still, I can at least make some kind of sense from what was written when I read it sober. On this rare occasion, some of it was such utter madness, illegible even to me. After an hour, I tired to carefully decipher meaning like a linguist translating an ancient language. Eventually, I was able to understand my documented wrath from the night of my writing black out. Before I show you the translated version, here is how my Drunk Dyscrephia appears in my note book.

((PUT IN photo-copies of DRUNK DYSCREPHIA FOLLOWED BY TYPED TRANSLATION))

I wish musical talent could be genetic in our family, instead alcoholism, anxiety, and learning disabilities were all that was passed down; sometimes heredity sucks! Usually, after a night of sheer inebriation, I just wait for the depression, the anxiety, and the pain to fade. When dread dissipates like a gloomy fog, I soon return to my more productive self, no longer restrained by depression or by dehydration. The brain is approximately made of seventy five percent water; no wonder it’s hard to think clear until the body is hydrated. When hydrated, my imagination soon returns filling the emptiness in my head with concepts about art and science. I swear to myself not to drink for a while, this usually dose not last a long duration.

As fast as my motivated active mind is restored, my nemesis anxiety returns followed by depression. The urge to drink reaches a level that becomes uncontrollable like a tick caused by Tourette syndrome. Pretty soon, a drink is in my hand almost unconsciously, yet consciously, I feel impervious to pain. Momentarily protected by a drunken exoskeleton, until my past is felt causing me to drink until I see darkness. I awake alone and vulnerable, usually the next afternoon, while anxiety invades my mind like a temporary parasite that wants to drain me. Regret starts to remind me of my mistakes. Why do I drink so much? Why do I continue to put toxins in my body? These questions seem absurd to ask myself.  As a child, these problems would be easy to avoid; don’t do it. Stop poisoning your body. But as I matured, life became more complicated and alcohol seemed to decrease the burden of my past. Why do adults make immature decisions?

      When I was younger, I remembered talking to my Grandpa about drinking. I was four and my Grandpa recalled how I made some funny commits to him at a bar while visiting his mother in a small town. We stopped at a dimly lit drinking hole that had a black and white TV that flickered “Leave it to Beaver.” I despised that show, but was obsessed with video games. All “Leave it to Beaver” did was try to create a fictitious reality that desperately tried to falsify society. So, I asked for a quarter to play Donkey Kong. Did you ever wonder; where are the donkeys? Well, there are none because in Japan it is called Monkey Kong; Americans just made a simple mistake with the translation. If the Japanese video game creators would have consulted Primatologist Jane Goodall or Dian Fossey about the Monkey Kong title, perhaps, they may have suggested Ape Kong.

You might think getting a quarter from your grandpa is an easy task, although; when he is in cheap mode, your lucky to get a sandwich from him, unless it was deli meat from some kind of generic brand. Seriously, I was starving on the way to meet my great grandmother, and saw a Burrito Chef, but Grandpa insisted on eating at his mom’s who only had: pickle loaf, mustard, generic white bread, and her house was a three-hour drive away from Burrito Chef. Eventually, my stomach ate itself.

Since my Grandpa would not relent a quarter; I had to devise a way to trick him. There was a lot going against me, but confidence began to take over.

“Hey grandpa, could I have a quarter?”

He was in the middle of a game of solitaire, and his concentration seemed impervious, but I new it could be broken by my assertive nature.

“Grandpa could I have a quarter?”

“God Dam it!?”

The bartender noticed my Grandpa’s frustration, so she came over to check on him.

“Need anything sweetie?”

“I need a drink; I lost two games in a roll.”

“The same?”

“Grandpa, can I have a quarter?”

“Bloody Mary this time, extra vodka, extra spicy.”

“Your trying a buffet of drinks.”

“When I start winning that we’ll be the drink I’ll stick with.”

“Hopefully this is the lucky drink.”

“Grandpa can I have a quarter?”

“For Christ sakes Warren, what!?

“Can I...”

“Video games are a waste of time and money,” he explained cheaply while slurping down his drink.

“I win more than you do at cards, and alcohol is a waste of money.”

“Here’s your quarter, and make it last?”

“Wow, thanks!”

     I went over to Monkey Kong with my gleaming George Washington ready to get my fix, until the game devoured my quarter. I guess it was hungry. It was so frustrating because everything else worked fine. The video game’s screen had better resolution and audio quality than the black and white Television that flickered “Leave it to Beaver.” Though, the coin slot needed repair. Perhaps nobody played Monkey Kong because they were too busy getting loaded. Or maybe other grandfathers left their grandchildren at home. What ever the reason, I went up to the bar tender and asked,

“Could I have my quarter back?”

“Sorry no refunds,” she explained while she pointed to the sign as if I could read, yet; I had seen enough of them to know what the sign meant. So, I played dumb in a clever way.

“No refunds, God Damn it! Now I need a drink!

The entire bar roared with laughter. I had a grin on my face like a comedian might have after people laughed at his or her stand up routine. One of the four inebriated men, not counting my Grandpa, was impressed, he shouted,

“One rum and cola for Rodney Dangerfield,”

“How about bourbon and cola,” I demanded.

The bar tender responded,

You’re in luck we have some cola.

“If I was lucky, I’d have a quarter for the stupid pin ball game.”

“One cola and one quarter for the stupid pin ball game. On the house!”

“Oh wow, Thanks!”

Even though I hated pin ball, it was better than Green Acres, which was now flickering on the Television screen. The bar tender decided not to listen to the drunken man and just gave me a cola minus the bourbon. She probably did not want to lose her liquor license. Maybe she had kids of her own. Any how, my grandpa insisted on just a splash of whisky.

“It might put hair on his chest,” he clarified.

You might think it is wrong to give child a drink and bring him to a bar. My grandma and dad were appalled, on the contrary; if this were England or Ireland people probably would not even give this situation a second thought. In England and Ireland, sometimes families gathered around the local pub and drink and sing songs. Even the kids were sometimes accustomed to drink a little, especially on the holidays. Is this right, or does this effect a child? Ethically, I think it depends on the culture, however; a child’s up bringing can affect him as an adult; especially if he’s surrounded by alcohol. Is it ethnocentric to judge other cultures for doing so? And how much of the disease may be hereditary?

          Chapter 2: The Amplified Gift

 My Grandpa taught me how to drink, and then left us when I was five, but my Grandma taught me how to control my pyschometry until her death. She would explain to me how, “an object such as a watch can absorb so much energy through out each day. Some people have the same watch for decades or even centuries, when passed down by generations of fathers or mothers,” and this is when people like my grandma could read an in-depth autobiography. Only, at the age of fifth teen my Psychomic touch was peaking. It just took me seconds to download auto-biographies from objects that have only been handled by people for a few minutes, sometimes even if a person has just handled an object such as a pen for a few seconds, I could still see the person’s thoughts. Psychometry readings were like seeing someone’s life projected past my mind.  My Psychomic touch let me know who I could trust and most of the time my ability was dead on. Except with Megan, my ability was always shut off with her.

In my sophomore year of high school algebra, I was at the threshold of failing, so I looked around the class room for an answer to my math problem. In my algebra class, I was fortunate to sit by a girl named Kristen Becker. She was a brilliant math student; although, she never paid attention. She even slept in class, which a lot of us did, it was first hour. Yet, she maintained strait A’s.

        Kristen was my only hope at passing the course. When it came time to take the finale exam, of course, I was not ready. What the hell do I need math for, I thought; though, I did need to pass the test to avoid repeating algebra. As the class focused on their finale exam, I hoped for a miracle. Something was bound to happen, it had to. I tried to look over Kristen’s shoulder but could not see the answers. So, I just sat at my desk, and watched Kristen with her back towards me as if I were a scavenger waiting for answers to fall off her desk like a left-over piece of meat. Then it happened, a glorious phenomenon took place. She dropped her pencil, and I picked it up with rapid reflexes. She looked around for it as I quickly absorbed the pencil’s memories with my psychomic touch. The answers to the test came to me followed by her ambitions. Her main desire was to become a theoretical physicist; these thoughts were followed by others. Her memories started to flood my mind as the teacher noticed Kristen looking for her pencil.

"Is something wrong Kristen?" The teacher asked?

"Yes. I dropped my pencil." She replied.

When I finished reading her pencil, I gave it back after taking her thoughts. I knew almost all the answers; though, I just wrote down enough of the correct answers to achieve an 85% on the final exam, which averaged out to be a 75% for my over all grade. My grade was enough to get by for now. At least, I would not be grounded by my dad; in reality, I was not grounded by anything because my mind was soaring with freedom. Now, my skills were reaching a new height.  I could not help feeling guilty because I knew too much. In one brief moment, Kristen’s pencil became a diary. I knew her dreams and her nightmares. She   wanted to become a theoretical physicist; and she also wanted to be more famous than Albert Einstein and Steven Hawking who are two of the most illustrious theoretical physicists that ever lived. So far, they are the only physicists to reach movie stardom. Perhaps Kristen would create another revolutionary theory that would change the way humans perceive the world?

On the contrary, her pencil reading told me otherwise, she had an exceptional gift for math; yet, she lacked the caliber of imagination that Einstein possessed, and the one Hawking now has. In spite of this fact, after sophomore algebra Kristen skipped all other math courses in the high school level to be put into college calculus the following semester. The pencil reading also told me that before going to my suburban high school, Kristen had moved from a city where she attended all of her education thus far. When she made the transition from a big urban setting to a suburban school that was less crowed and not filled with dangerous distractions, teachers were able to notice her uncanny abilities to solve problems at high velocity.

Another reason Kristen’s gift went unnoticed before at her over crowded urban school was that the school work did not challenge her enough. Kristen’s frustration de-motivated her. Once Kristen moved with her family to the suburbs, she finally settled into her less populated high school, and found her motivation at the end of her sophomore semester. Teachers and advisors soon took notice and brought her out from the dense shadows and into the mathematical spotlight. In my junior semester, I heard she was transferred to Princeton University and advised to study Mathematics in computing: software engineering, statistics, or cryptography (study of enciphering and deciphering codes) but this is not what she wanted, she dreamed of theatrical physics. Sadly for Kristen, a particular female career adviser that was retired form the navy discovered her high velocity thought process for numbers and math problems; therefore, kept pushing cryptography on Kristen hoping she would conform and use her ability on a naval ship or submarine to decipher codes; so the career adviser could vicariously thrive, but Kristen wanted to flourish from the field of theoretical physics.  

What Kristen’s pencil told me could never be explained to her naive mind? She was too stubborn and egotistic to try and enhance her imagination, which could have benefited her for the field that she constantly dreamed of. Kristen’s stubbornness became her arch-nemesis, since her mind seemed to yield the kind of imagination that Einstein and Hawking displayed. Most would say at times, Einstein was also stubborn; on the contrary, he was confident more often than he was stubborn because his imagination surpassed film makers: photographers, painters, most writers and scientists. What he envisioned has had an impact on just about everyone. He is often quoted and one of his famous quotes is “imagination is more important than knowledge. For awhile knowledge defines all we currently know and understand; imagination points to all we might yet discover and create. “

Einstein’s theory of Relativity epitomizes imagination and it has two parts, one of which I referred to earlier as Special Relativity (E=MC squared) and the other is General Relativity, Guv=8 Pi T u v. General Relativity changed the way we view the universe with earth shattering force. His ground-breaking theory was not limited to just shaking the conventional science realm because his theory caused an epic earth quake that was felt by the whole world. The equation Guv = 8piTuv explained how space time is like a fabric and Einstein defined space as length, width, height, and time; this notion unified them both, changing the phrase to space time.

To understand General Relativity, there is an analogy that I have read about and have seen demonstrated on many documentaries, which helps illustrate the theory. Allow me to paraphrase, if you put a bowling ball on the fabric of space time, along with some marbles, the bowling ball will sink into the fabric pulling the marbles towards it. The more massive an object, such as the sun, the more gravitational pull it will have on other objects of less mass, just like the planets that revolve around the sun. Just as my hypothetical bowling ball curved the fabric, Einstein said the sun’s gravity caused a curvature in space time that set a course for the planets to follow.

To prove his theory Einstein predicted that an eclipse would demonstrate what he imagined. Einstein said that the sun’s rays would curve around the moon because massive objects could bend space time, and could even curve light. Einstein tested this theory in his mind instead of a lab. When a solar eclipse actually demonstrated what he imagined, the entire world became astonished by experiencing what Einstein had envisioned as the moon’s gravity curved the sun’s rays for all to see.  

According to Kristen Becker’s pencil, she can visualize numbers at high velocity because mathematically she is a savant. She could look at complex equations or word problems and imagine numbers almost instantaneously, although; when it came to visualizing the strange spectacles of the universe, such as black wholes warping matter or parallel universes, she struggled to   comprehend. Einstein and Hawking thrived off imagining how certain things in the cosmos might react under certain situations and Kristen struggled in this area of theoretical physics.  

Even more frustrating than trying to imagine the enigmas of the universe, Kristen could not even dream in color. Every night she dreamed in black and white, and this became her continuous nightmare. Her dream world could not be vibrant; meanwhile, the universe was a black canvas composed of luminous saturation such as planets: red and white dwarfs, Nebulas, Quasars, and super novas. She could never dream of the diverse color schemes created by Nebulas or Quasar projections, unless it was in a monochromatic dreamscape. How would she change our colorful universe? Her most precious dream was of a flower that her great grandma had once given her in real life, but when she dreamt of this moment, it was trapped in subconscious grey scale.

Even if she could dream in color, Kristen’s mind had trouble reinventing the conventional. Einstein modified Newton’s theory of gravity by perplexing scientists with his notion that massive objects can warp space time. Once his theory was proven he became an ultimate icon. In contrast to these mathematical minds, my math skills are slow and usually can not be seen in my mind. I have to write out simple word problems on paper. Association helps me imagine what the equations represent. Somehow, in a miraculous conscious contradiction, Kristen Becker’s mind can see numbers along with flashes of colors. The colors help her associate numerical value when solving math problems and the colors flicker at high speed in her mindscape. Her favorite number is 8 because this number glows with the color pink, a starburst pink to be exact.

There is a significant reason why Kristen adores the color pink; it is the same color of the flower that her deceased grandma once gave her. The flower is called cosmos bipinnatus, more commonly known as cosmos. Kristen can not conceive a dream in color; even though, she observes it in her everyday life. Bizarrely, contradicting to her dreams, she can consciously envision mathematics in the spectrum of a rainbow. Kristen can grasp a word problem nearly as well as I can read objects with psychometry. She gets the answers with rapid results by visualizing a vividly glowing numberscape.

All of these thoughts invaded my mind in a matter of seconds after picking up Kristen’s pen, when all I wanted were the damn answers for the test, not an autobiography. If I would have only let my grandpa try to teach math to me when I was younger, maybe it would have created a fascination that could have reduced some of my mathematical frustration that I have had ever since. Instead, I obsessed over monster movies and video games. I still love creature movies and some of the vintage video games of the 80’s. I do not regret my nostalgia; however; I sometimes wish there was a way to rewire my mind to comprehend math better than my present state. Dyscalculia does play a huge part in jumbling up digits.

Then again, I did beg my grandma to teach me Spanish, but she never taught me. The more she used English the more she forgot her neglected native tug. Surprisingly, my Grandpa did offer me something linguistic. He tried to teach me the language of math. I have read that it is easier to learn a language when you are younger than it is when you are older. My Grandpa told me, “Math is the language of the universe” and my Grandpa wanted to teach me. He was an engineer for Viteck systems. He tried countless times to explain numbers, but I was never willing to learn. He once asked me when I was five,

“Warren do you want to know how to use all the buttons

on this calculator?”

I replied,

“No.”

“Why don’t you want to learn?” I can teach you and you might think it’s fun.”

“Video Games are fun.”

“Video games are made with math by using computer coding called Binary code, which is made up of 01010100. Donkey Kong is just a bunch of numbers jumping around.”

“Let’s go to an arcade, I’ll show you how to make those numbers jump and shoot. I’ll show you how to play, Donkey Kong, Galaga, and Robotron. I bet you couldn’t get past the first wave in Robotron.”

“Video games are a waste of money,” he cheaply expressed.

“So is drinking and gambling,” I fired back with condescending enthusiasm!

Video games were not going to help me in this world, although; I did when six tickets for a trip to a theme park called Super Coaster, for ranking number one in my area. I also won a free cartridge of the NBA basketball video game called SLAM! I realize now that he was right, video games are a waste of time, and now, I like to learn about physics. What a mistake I made, a math enthusiast-electrical engineer for Viteck Systems was willing to teach me how to see the world with a new eye, and I decided to view the world ignoring math. This mistake has beset me for the rest of my life. In fact, it has caused me countless problems with jobs. If I would have let him teach me, perhaps, it would have sparked an interest to keep learning. Perhaps dyslexia and dyscalculia would not have jumbled as much of the numbers, if I would have developed an interest for mathematics at a young age? Maybe I would not be struggling with everyday life as much because math is everywhere???...…###$$$$+++xxxPI%%%***+ 3.14X???&.0100110100101 101010.999999999-010.101999=??/!!!  

I’m getting side tracked again. What was I thinking about before my Grandpa trying to teach me math? That’s it, the math savant Kristen Becker. I was thinking about how I used my Psychomic touch to read her pencil and get the answers for the math test. After finding out I passed the test, guilt began to invade my conscience, not for cheating on the test, I felt bad for taking her life story when all I wanted were just her damn answers. Guilt gradually devoured me. I became depressed and had to ventilate my frustrations. I told my grandma about how my brief pencil reading turned into Kristen Becker’s autobiography. Instead of becoming angry with me for cheating on a test, my grandma was amazed by my quick life reading because I was only fifteen. Instead of facing scrutiny for cheating on the math test, my abilities help over shadow the deception and I was praised. She said,

        “That’s impressive! I can’t believe you can do that so fast at your age.”

I became frustrated and explained,

        “Grandma, I stole all of her thoughts. I don’t want them. I just wanted the answers. I stay awake at night sometimes wondering, can someone do this to me. Can some one invade my privacy? I might as well have been a cat burglar and broke in to her house to steal her diary.”

        “Warren, don’t be so hard on your self. You need to find out how to control the way you read objects. Find out what you want to know and concentrate on that thought. Then you should be able to retrieve only what you’re searching for when you use your Pyschomic touch. You need to have conscious control so that your subconscious doesn’t take over and flood your mind with too much.”

“How can I do that when I’m a cat burglar of the mind?” I remarked.

My Grandma explained,

“You can practice with your dreams. Your uncle Max is a master of his dreams.  He’s a very lucid dreamer.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Lucid…that means you realize you’re dreaming and take control. Are you a lucid dreamer Warren?”

“I don’t know? I never really thought about it.”

“Have you ever taken control of a dream,” Grandma asked?

“Not that I can think of……..”

“You’ve never…..

“Wait, there was this one dream when I was being chased by an angry mob, and I was approaching a bridge with more pissed off people on the other side. When I reached the bridge, I looked down and noticed dark water. I didn’t know what eerie presence could be lurking underneath the non-transparent water, but I was willing to risk it. The mob grew closer, and I jumped off the bridge. While air born, time became slow, my thoughts flowed faster than the water below me. When I splashed through the murky darkness, I sank faster in the water than when I was falling through the air.  

As I sank deeper, my eyes opened wider with fear and curiosity. A school of silhouetted fish swam by only to part, allowing a silhouetted leviathan to glide by me. It had four pectoral fins and a long stretching neck that had a small head and pointed snout attached at the end. The sea creature was a Plesiosaur, which looked a lot like the mythical Lock Ness monster. My fear proceeded to subside a little as my curiosity peaked. It didn’t seem to notice me, and swam by again, while gliding elegantly through the murky deep. I reached out to grab its fin and it took me for a ride.

I was disappointed that nothing else was swimming by for me to see, but still had a minute amount of frightfulness. A peculiarity began to give me a sense of rationale; was I dreaming? When this realization became apparent, dread was replaced by exhilaration. I was a conscious tourist in my own dream ready to see more; the Plesiosaur continued to take me for a ride, regardless, I was not letting go. I concentrated and tried to see a shark, but not just any shark, a Megalodon, the most vicious shark to swim in the primeval sea. Megalodon was known to be 50 – to 70 feet in length, and it was the Tyrant fish of the—“

My Grandma cut me off.

“Warren, you’re trailing off. I know you have OCD, but remember I’m not that interested in dinosaurs.”

“Megalodon was not a dinosaur, it was a prehistoric shark that…”

“Did you ever take control of your mind like you did in your dream, to get what you wanted?”

          “In eighth grade, I figured out my teacher’s computer pass word.”

“What?!”

“I was in computer programming, and I had a feeling that I could break the code, so I could get access to fun things like recording my voice.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah, I recorded my voice and played it during the teacher’s class lecture. The class cracked up, but not as hard as me. Finding out the password enabled me to break the lock for voice recording. I imitated a bobcat roaring and played it back while Mr. Anderson lectured.”

“What was the password?”

“Bacon and eggs.”

“That’s a weird code,” my grandma remarked.

“I guess Mr. Anderson loved Bacon and Eggs.”

My Grandma started to laugh at my intuitive assumption for the code, but I was being serious.

 “I wanted to break that code so bad. I told a student that sat next to me,

I’m going to do it.”

He responded, “I’ve been trying all semester, you’ll never do it.”

As we talked about the teacher’s pass word, my peripheral vision caught him looking at us with eyes that said, you will never figure out my pass word.

When I typed in the teacher’s pass word the computer made a noise that said,

“Tada!”

The students around me were spellbound; although, I was not that impressed because I had confidence that I could do it from the beginning. After the lecture, my teacher told me to come over to his desk. He wanted to ask me a question. This made me paranoid because I thought I was in trouble for figuring out his pass word or maybe he was freaked out, or both.

“How did you know my pass word?”

 “I had a feeling I new it and typed it.”

“Yeah Right?”

“I did.”

“How many tries?”

“Just one.”

“You’re shitting me?! The first time?”

“Yep,” I expressed confidently as his eyes lit up with shock.

“Maybe there’s a glitch or something. What’s my password?”

“Bacon and Eggs,” I calmly remarked.

“What the hell?! You had to see me type that in before?”

“Never. I just thought of it today.”

“Who told you.”

”Nobody, the pass word just came to me.”

And then he whispered,

“You gotta be shitting me?”

“I swear, I just had a feeling it would be right.”

“Are you messing with me? Who told you the pass word?”

“Did you tell anybody the code,” I asked him?

“No,” he remarked.

 When people come in contact with extra sensory phenomenon (ESP) they usually deny that it happened. Their minds are unable to process this information; so, to a narrow mind it did not happen, but an open mind can understand this other reality because certain regions that are unused in most brains become active and extremely in tune. I wonder if other dimensions besides the four we know of length, width, height, and time (which has been redefined by theoretical physicist as space time) exists and as I became more in tune with my mind, I began to notice that space time contained openings to the past.

Steven Hawking was right. Worm holes exist and my skilled open mind discovered that objects contained energy, which not only allowed me to read absorbed thoughts (modern day neurologist believe thoughts are a from of energy) but also found away to release the energy from within an object. The energy from within could be converted into passage ways that lead to the objects past.  

Now where was I, oh yeah, I was clarifying the computer pass word situation to my grandma by explaining how my teacher thought some one must have told me his pass word. Mr. Anderson asked me,

“Who told you?”

I fired back, “Did you tell anyone the password?”  

“Not that I can think of. I’m just tiring to figure out how you did that.”

“And I’m trying to tell you how I did it.”

“Because of a feeling?”

“Yep, I wanted to find out your pass word so bad that the pass word just came to me.”

“That’s God Damn amazing Warren,” Mr. Anderson replied.

Even my grandma could barely believe it, so I guess I should have been more enthralled like they were.

“See Warren, I don’t blame your teacher for being shocked, even I’m impressed. You have other psychic abilities. It may be telepathy. “I wonder if you wanted the pass word so bad that you tapped into his mind to hear his thoughts?

 We should try to enhance this new gift, and maybe it could be as strong as your psychometry.”

The pass word incident rose lots of questions, and my grandma started to question my confident feeling when I discovered the pass word. She questioned,

“Was it telepathy? Or are we missing something?” And then it came to her.

“Warren, did you touch anything that belonged to your teacher before you discovered the pass word?”

“Not that I can think of…….No, I don’t think I did?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. God damn it, now that I think of it I may have used his stapler.”

“Warren, don’t blasphemy. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? Don’t say sorry unless you mean it. Other wise you’ll end up sounding like your mom.”

“I’m sorry and I mean it. It’s just sometimes when I’m mad I feel the need to curse.”

“If you let your emotions get the better of you, you’ll sound stupid, or worse yet, you might make horrible mistakes.” You know Warren, you should try meditating; it can really balance you out. And better yet, give you more of a grasp on you abilities and also help conquer your learning disabilities.”

“Grandma, you know I have a sever ADD, I won’t be able to concentrate on clearing my mind. “

“Now you sound like Grandpa, never giving anything a chance, just set in your…”

“Fuck that god damn bastard. I don’t care about anything he did.”

“You should, you don’t want to end up like him. He was the most stubborn fool I have ever met, and right now you sound like him. And I told you never to say god’s name in vain around me. And stop cursing it sounds ignorant.”

“Grandma, I’m so sure that an immortal hearing a mortal call its name in vain would offend or harm it.”

“You’re not listening to me; it offends me not him.”

“Grandma, god, if it existed, it wouldn’t be male or female, besides, do you know how sexist that sounds, to call it a he, and even if you called God a she (a Goddess) that still would not make any sense. God is not human; it is allegedly beyond us. And if god is offended by humans saying its name in vain, then it is prideful and vengeful; that’s evil. Why would you want to worship a sinister contradiction?”

“Try to be understanding of my feelings; it offends me. I am a Christian! I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like god?”  

“Stop trying to twist things around on me, you know what I mean. I don’t like blasphemy. A little empathy would suit you better; do you know what I mean by that?

“No?”

“I mean, see things from other people’s perspective. Other wise you’ll sound like Grandpa. And I know you don’t want to sound like that.”

“No, I don’t what to sound like that fucking prick!”

“WARREN!”

“Sorry, I don’t want to sound like him.”

“What were you saying before, oh yeah? You said you might remember using Mr. Anderson’s Stapler?”

“Oooh ssshiiit, yeeeaah, I think I do.

“Warren, how was that necessary?”

“It’s frustrating, maybe I don’t have telepathy.”

“You have been cursing this entire conversation. You may not have telepathy, but I know you have the ability to be more articulate.”

“I’m sorry, and I mean it, I’ll try to stop. I get too frustrated sometimes.”

 “When you used your teacher’s stapler, you must have used psychometry without knowing it. Like I said before, if you practice trying to be a lucid dreamer this may help you control your subconscious better, which helped your Uncle Max’s pyschometry. And if you start meditating that will help balance everything, even you’re ADD and OCD.

“I’ll try, I expressed.”

I didn’t start meditating until later on in my life, but I did everything else she told me to do. It’s quite astounding how keen my abilities have become. We successfully gained a better grasp on my psychometry, and found out that I could tap into unused regions of my brain, which would come in handy later on when I tried to search for portals to the past. My grandma taught me to appreciate what I could do because grandma and Uncle Max did not have the psychometry skills that I possessed. They were impressed by how advanced my psychometry had become. If only my Grandma could have lived long enough to have seen me drift. Unfortunately, I did have other aptitudes that she chose to ignore while she lived; I wonder if she regrets neglecting these gifts.

Chapter 3: Eclipsed Abilities

With my psychomitry, I could release recorded energy in objects enabling me to see the past through other eyes, though my urge to record moments for others to view from my own perception became an obsession. I longed for a way to suspend how I saw the moments of others when I read their past by using my psychomic touch. Then I started to obsess over my own past, everything that my mind and eye’s saw, I wanted to project for others to see like a home movie. If only I could have complete conscious aesthetic control of my memories. I wished there was a way to record what I remembered or dreamed; I would call it Lucid the dream recorder. The obsession to suspend light and time began to take over me from within, and this passion needed to be released and captured.

Besides some of my family, I have never been able to reveal my psychometry to other people because the fear of ridicule was too strong, and my grandma warned me that if people began to realize what I could, do they might want to study me like a lab rat. For years, I had to keep my psychometry to myself, with the exception of my Grandma and my uncle Max. My grandma had other gifts beside the psychometry, she could also sculpt. She once made a six-inch sculpture of Mahatma Gandhi in the later years of his life, which was delicately crafted to display every intricacy that Gandhi possessed before his passing. His frail appearance, ironically, concealed his powerful mind, and her sculpture captured his essence.

Unfortunately, my grandma was ridiculed for choosing Gandhi instead of Christ by some of her Christian church friends. Gandhi was Hindu, despite his religion, Gandhi was willing to see all people as human, and I would hope to think of Christ in the same way. Obviously, there is not photographic or motion-picture documentation of Jesus Christ, but there is of Mahatma Gandhi; Christ probably existed, but there is no substantial proof of his resurrection. Gandhi’s teachings have not become warped and translated many times by ethnocentric, sexist, prejudice men. Gandhi helped reduce vast amounts of violent tension between Hindus and Muslims by purely using passive techniques as did Christ on the cross; that is, if what has been written in the Bible is true, and not carefully fabricated propaganda designed by the poetic propagators with the intent to control.

Although, the New Testament did depict Christ driving out the money changers from the temple, “And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen; and poured out the changers’ money, and overthrew the tables;” (King James Bible, John 2:15) these actions do not convey non-violent actions. Were as, Gandhi used pacifism as a weapon to help end violent conflicts by fasting on multiple occasions after Indian Independence. Starving himself help convince Hindus and Muslims to cease fighting. How could these so called faithful friends, judge my grandma, and act ethnocentric and prejudice towards Gandhi and Hinduism, how hypocritical. Why is it hard for some people to see the beauty in other cultures? My Grandma did, however, she never sculpted again.

I also had other gifts besides psychometry. I could not sculpt; yet, there was a voice that had never been herd by anyone accept me. Only, all I could hear from this voice was a whisper because I let my dad, Megan, and some friends make me think art was beyond my limits. I knew this was not true. Grandma even neglected this passionate aspect of my life. My learning disabilities have made it difficult to function normally in western culture. As I said before, typical every day tasks that people have to perform on a daily basis, are, at times, complicated for me to comprehend.

For example, driving directions and basic math are everywhere in our society and if you can not perform these tasks at a normal rate; learning disabilities will overshadow who you really are. If you can not follow the leader and be an easily programmed robot, you are considered stupid and slow. They say I am learning disabled, while some suffer from a disabled imagination. My imagination has been suppressed by many, even my grandma, who at times, has driven me away from my non-psychic gifts.

Deep with in those who are imaginative is a relentless force that needs to create: a force that can not be suppressed by anyone, accept for the person allowing the suppression. Now, this energy that has been trapped deep inside wants to erupt like a shrieking banshee, and it will not stop until all of this creative force can be unleashed. Soon after that realization, I started to think about space time.

When we think of the beginning, do we project the past,

Reversing time with our thoughts,

And when we travel at the speed of thought,

Can we bend reality? Can we warp time?

Around the moment of pondering thought speed and space time. I started to think about motion-picture, and eventually still photography, which really epitomizes capturing time and looking back on that moment whenever I pleased: like a time-explorer. Studying film making and photography in college began to take over all thoughts towards the end of my senior year of high school. Yet, these desires distracted me from what my mind could accomplish in the way of the paranormal. Maybe my Grandma was right to ignore these other talents (writing, film, and photography).

As I stopped caring about my ESP (extra sensory phenomenon), my dad stopped caring about my schooling. I still managed to go to college through financial aid and loans. Movie making is the one medium that combines all art forms writing: acting, cinematography, editing, music, painting; architecture (art direction), sculpting, and a director should have knowledge of each facet. Overtime, I built a descent film reel, until I realized that film school was not for me. The school system, and cost of the art form was restricting my style. Although, I decided to learn film making on my own by thoroughly observing movies and reading film criticism. Yet, one aspect of film still captivated me. Film students had to take a Photo I course because it was a prerequisite to cinematography. I fell in love with the still image. Photography made me feel like a deity that could stop time at any moment, and enabled me to manipulate that interval in the darkroom as I pleased.

A specific duration could be altered anyway I chose by adjusting exposures. The lighting could make someone seem gentle or menacing. Later on, I began to experiment with faster speed films. T-Max 3200 speed became my film of choice because it gave me freedom to photograph without a distracting flash when shooting dimly lit scenes. Fast speed films were also very grainy, which enhanced the rawness of a local low budget independent wrestling organization that I sometimes photographed. The grainy characteristic of fast films also worked well for my street photography by giving it a gritty quality.

My weapon of choice was a Minolta X-GM 35mm. I purchased a 70-210mm telephoto lens to acquire intimate close ups to subjects that were beyond the 50mm lens. The telephoto lens helped me become a remarkable sharp shooter. I was an assassin with light, creating my own propaganda by making people see what I saw. The zoo was a favorite place to photograph for me. It was a typically photographed subject that posed a complex challenge; how could this place appear more interesting. When I looked through the view finder, I saw things differently. However, when viewed with my eyes, I saw animals neglected. Their captivities were depressing. The animals had little space to move, and the bars, or glass made it appear like they were prisoners. The Zebra’s stripe pattern personified this notion. Their black and white patterns already screamed with the vintage jail inmate uniforms and, next to bars or a fence, the unwanted metaphor became accentuated.

Besides watching PBS, Animal Planet, or National Geographic, the zoo was the only way I could experience most of these exotic animals. Since the zoo usually made me happy, I had to think of a way that would depict what I felt. Thus, I framed images that did not reveal the bars, glass, or anything that would tell the viewer that the animals were captives for zoological entertainment.

I even had the chance to document the birth of a Grevy’s Zebra. The mother was named Frida (named after Frida Kahlo the Mexican surrealist) and the father was named Ray (named after the photographer Man Ray). Yes, they were in doors to deliver the baby, instead of outside in their free raged captivity, yet the enclosure gave the infant safety. The indoors enclosure also gave the zoo keepers, and zoologists better control of the situation; therefore, blocking out the elements and any distractions, which ensured a safer birth. It was in the late fall when baby Salvador (named after the surrealist painter Salvador Dali) was born. He lay in a pool of steaming after birth, and quickly rose to his hoofs. How beautifully designed by nature, it was imbedded in its DNA to instinctively rise and be prepared to move in order to avoid becoming prey.

The nativity of Salvador was the most powerful moment I ever captured. Only, this time I tried to document it exactly how it happened with as many details as I could fit in the frame, meaning I abandoned my telephoto lens (70-210mm) and switched to my 50mm for a wide view lens. Plus, it had a faster lens than the telephoto; this allowed me to open the aperture wider in order to gain the exposure (the lighting) I needed in the darker enclosure.

Most of the Zoologist and zoo keepers were on the ground with the mother Frida as she struggled to push out the little stripped miracle. I had already photographed with two 36 exposure rolls of film as I loaded another roll. I chose to go eye level at this moment and moved in closer to only frame Frida with enough room for Salvador to emerge. Soft light pored in from a window angelically lighting the scene. In order to capture this diffused morning that entered through a bared window, I used T-max 3200 speed film and pushed it to 6400, which basically means developing the film longer to achieve the exposure that would allow me to photograph in this harsh lighting situation. Also, this helped me achieve lighting that was true to the scene. Though, I have to admit, the still image could not replicate the diversity of emotions felt in that room because there is no sound.

Nevertheless, in one image, Frida opened her mouth releasing a misty breath as she cried out in pain and joy to celebrate the birth of Salvador. In a few frames, Frida’s wide-mouthed hazy exhale insinuated the cry we all herd as the process of birth took place. Salvador is first photographed with his head pushed out of the womb and followed by five more exposures. I was still using 36 exposure rolls of film, which still had 28 exposures left.

Then I shot five more frames of Salvador halfway pushed out of Frida’s womb. A sequence of ten more images displays Salvador in a puddle of after birth. I shot the rest of the roll, fifth teen more exposures, with a succession of imagery that conveys Salvador in a slow emergence to his hoofs as everyone cheers for his successful birth. Everyone was awestruck by this new being, but I had to break out of emotion, and load a new roll of film (another 36 exposures). An organism born with emotions of fear, happiness, sadness, many people have trouble with understanding the simple notion that other life forms feel as we do. When Salvador cried out for the first time to his mother Freda, all of us sobbed with him. Though, my view finder teared up too much, and I had to wipe away my emotion on the view finder with my shirt so I could focus.    

I can still vividly recall the moment I processed the film for Salvador’s nativity. My anticipation was unparallel. Consumed by excitement, I carefully loaded the exposed film on to a reel in absolute darkness. My college had changing rooms for film, which were about the size of a narrow walk in closet. Once in the changing room, you need to lock the door, other wise someone may open it causing sensitive exposed film to be scorched by light. After you make an exposure, it becomes a latent image, which means an image that is invisible until the film is processed with chemistry to become visible.

Exposed film is even more sensitive than unexposed film, to be on the safe side, it is good to store film in cool environments because this will decrease the activity of your film; until, it is ready to be processed. Some people even keep film in a refrigerator, but if you do this you must remember to give it time to reach room temperature before photographing or processing it. A lot can go wrong, and mistakes do happen.

Once, I made a careless mistake on my first roll of film during the pre-processing stage; which is removing coiled film from its tiny manufacturer’s tin container and placing it onto a reel to be put in a light resistant film tank that is made for chemistry to enter while blocking out light. When loading film on to a reel to be put in a film tank, you have to be careful and this has to be done in absolute darkness. After your film is securely on the reel, you need to put it into the film tank. The film tank has a light resistant lid that needs to be tightly sealed. Unfortunately, with my first roll of film, I forgot to push the lid securely onto the canister, and some of my negatives were singed by blazing illumination when I stepped out of the changing room.

This was the first and only occasion that mistake took place. By nature, I am already obsessive compulsive, though this photographic catastrophe caused me to become an extreme fanatic. Since then, I check my lid at least five times, even when I know the film canister lid is secure. When processing Salvador’s birth, I checked to make sure the lid was tightly sealed ten times because Salvador’s nativity is a moment that could never be duplicated again. Even if science cloned Salvador, it still would not be the same Salvador delivered by nature.

Another common mistake to make when loading film onto a reel is not to have the film properly rolled. Poorly rolled film can cause messy chemical streaks or can cause an unevenly developed image. Loading film can seem difficult, but it is a second nature to me, even though I can not see what I am doing, my hands are aware of their surroundings, and the darkness becomes soothing.

My college had a built-in-bottle-openers on the wall of the film changing rooms; although, I preferred using my own can opener to break the seal of the manufactured 35mm tiny film container in order to gain access to the exposed film. After opening the metal film container, you have to cut the film from the miniature spool that is already connected to it by the manufacturer. The manufacture’s spool is for advancing and rewinding the film while inside the camera. My first try at this, I accidentally cut off part of a portrait. To avoid cutting part of an exposed negative, or only having a half exposure, it is wise not to photograph something important on your first and last exposure of film. Just shoot blanks until your film is advanced to exposure one or two. Film has extra frames at the beginning usually marked by 00, and a second by 0, followed by exposure 1, exposure 2, and so on. At the end of the film there is usually an extra half exposure as well, for example, if it is a roll of 36 exposures, there is a half exposure at the end making it 38 exposures or 38 and a half (counting the two at the beginning).

Ever since I Mistakenly cut off part of a portrait that was on frame 00, instead of frame one, I have been ultra-cautious because that would have been one of my best portraits ever created. I can not believe I accidentally cut half of the negative, leaving behind a half-developed image of my friend Monika who modeled for me a lot. Later, I tried to recreate the portrait, but the expression I saw through the view finder when I first photographed Monika could never be duplicated. It was part of a candid moment that remained in a waste land some where as an unprocessed fragment in Monika’s life that partially escaped becoming suspended light; instead, that segment of Monika’s portrait remained a permanent latent image (an image that is invisible until processed by chemistry).

I’m getting a bit off course, where was I?  Oh yeah, while loading the exposed film of Salvador’s birth, I tried to contain my excitement. Once the film reel was cautiously placed in the film tank, I tightly placed the lid on top, and checked ten times. Twice as much as I normally do because this roll of film documented the birth of, at the time, my second favorite animal the Grevy’s Zebra. My first favorite was an Albatross, which has the longest wing span (12 ft) of any bird in the world. Birds have always fascinated me, especially when I found out that birds are direct descendents of theropods, bipedal carnivorous dinosaurs such as Tyrannosaurus Rex and Velociraptor …

…Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, I carefully held my tin film canister with one hand underneath and the other hand over the lid. The lid that covers the top of the tin film tank is plastic and this blocks out light. However, on top of the lid, covering the film container is a tinier plastic lid that can be removed to allow chemistry to be pored in, which enables the development process without removing the larger lid that shields it from light.

Before adding developer, you have to check the temperature of the developer because this greatly affects how your film will process. If the developer is to cool or warm you might over or under expose your negatives, and this is a very negative way to process film, just joking, about that horrible pun. Usually, I have to run cool water on the side of my film canister while it contained the developer, to bring down the room temperature of the chemistry from about 75 degrees to 68 degrees; although, you can develop at 75 degrees but it is good to chose a time for a specific brand and film speed in order to achieve consistency. If the developer is warmer the duration will decrease during the development time, and the cooler the temperature the longer it will take to process. Before I realized that 75 degrees could save me a lot of time, my OCD was already accustomed to using 68 degrees and was unwilling to change.  

 When I developed Salvador, I used an eight-ounce film tank (can only hold one roll of film at a time) and pored eight ounces of developer from the graduated cylinder into the tank. With a thin hose connected to one of the facets, I ran an icy flow of water on the outer surface of the film tank that now contained the developer. Once the developer has cooled down from room temperature to 68%, it is time to develop the film, although, it does depend on what your film stock requires and this information is usually stated on the box of film. To achieve better results, check a professional film chart on line. Or keep practicing and create your own chart.

The film speed (also referred to as ISO or ASA) is another variable that should be accounted for, depending on the film brand development times vary. I shot 3200 t-max film and pushed the film (push is a term that means to process longer) to 6400 to compensate for the dim lighting situation. The film push caused me to process my film for sixteen and a half minutes. Anytime you develop film longer it will increase the grain. You should agitate the film the entire first minute and then for fifteen seconds each additional minute. In between minutes of waiting to agitate, suspense raced through my mind, which caused me to pace up and down the floor by the sink like an expecting father.

You might ask yourself, why not do digital and skip all of these steps? My answer would be I enjoy these steps. Plus, the chemical process requires and teaches patience; this aspect is incredibly useful for some one with attention deficit disorder. Also, the chemical process can train the eye in a way that digital sometimes fails because students usually are after fast results; instead, of acquiring the knowledge needed to make a quality image.

Some instructors may try to argue this point, but I bet a majority of them started out with the chemical process, case in point. Not to say someone shooting strictly with a digital camera could not create a quality image; although, when you make a latent image (an image invisible until processed) with a film camera, you are making a confident decision once composed through a view finder with out viewing the image immediately after it was exposed. With using the chemical process over time, a trained eye can already see what is not there, this is how I knew to push the film one stop (from 3200 to 6400 speed).

As I was saying before, the developer is followed by stop bath and fixer. Stop- bath is an acid solution that ceases the image on the negative from further development. Once poured into the film tank, replace small cap. You should agitate the film canister with the same repetitive movement from an upright position to an upside-down position with a slow motion for one minute. When the minute ends dump the stop-bath down the drain. Rinse out canister with the large lid still on, and then ad the fixer, and put the little cap back on.

The fixer allows film to become insensitive to light by dissolving silver halide crystals, and leaves behind the silver exposed image. Agitate the entire first minute and once for fifth teen seconds each additional minute (five minutes in total), check an online film chart or the film manufacture box. My university had a jug used to recycle the fixer, instead of pouring it down the drain.

After the fixer, you can view your film, I usually wait because dust can sometimes cling to the film; yet, washing it usually removes this anyways. As soon as my film was fixed, my anticipation was too great to go through the other steps with out viewing it, so I popped open the film canister’s larger lid, and gently unrolled my film from the reel. When I held it up to the light, I saw that the negatives were properly exposed, revealing a dramatic density of darkness surrounding Salvador in an angelic perpetual illumination that resembles the lighting in Caravaggio’s painting “Entombment of Christ.”

I needed to wipe off my itchy distracting emotions that poured down my face, but I feared getting fixer in my eyes.

After my glimpse, I rolled the film back onto the reel and put it back into the canister. It is wise to where latex gloves or the blue non-latex nitrile gloves, even though I never did. I just washed my hands obsessively. When finished with the film developing process, I just need to add hypo-clear (fixer remover) and agitate for three minutes, and then wash the film for about eight to ten minutes. My college had a film washer, if not, just run the facet over the film, while on the reel and in the film tank.

When the film is done washing, you need to hang it to dry. Not all colleges have film dryers, but thankfully mine did, if not, hang dry it on a line with cloths pens in doors not outside with clothes. If you dry the film to long in a dryer it could bend or curl, or even become damaged, I usually dry it for eighteen to twenty minutes in the film dryer. If you do not dry the film long enough it will obviously still be wet, this will complicate things when trying to cut and sleeve the film, and if you don’t have a film dryer this will take hours. I always monitor my film as it dries. Also, it is good to take into consideration that any time equipment is overly used by students and teachers, there is a tendency for such a device to start having inconsistencies.

When the negatives are dry, I cut it in groupings of five images which usually is   the standard for how store bought negative sleeves are designed. This stage of the process is methodical for me because it allows me to carefully view my imagery as I cut precise negative strips to place them in the plastic film sleeves. If I notice any hairs or dust, I thoroughly clean the negatives with a specially designed dust brush or film brush. During this stage, I also edit through the negatives to select which ones I will print first. I recommend making a contact sheet, which is a positive photograph of all your negatives.

All you have to do to make a contact sheet is to take your negative sleeves and place that onto an unexposed piece of developing paper.  In order to have a clear consistent focused contact print, place a sheet of glass over the negative sleeves and developing paper. Some enlargers have two exposure buttons, one for timed and another for on going. Push the on-going button or switch while the developing paper is in a light safe black bag placed in a drawer. Then raise the enlarger higher than normal until you can create a circle of light that will expose the entire piece of developing paper. Then turn the enlargers light off and place the developing paper where the circle of light will illuminate and expose the paper for about five seconds at a wide aperture opening say f-2.8 or f-5.6.

The lens for the enlarger is just like a 50mm camera lens consisting of the same aperture openings or f-stops. Just think reverse, the larger the aperture opening the smaller the f-stop 1.8 or 2.8, the smaller the opening the larger the f-stop will be such as f-16 or f-22. Also note, f-16 and f-22 are small aperture openings that are good to use when photographing landscapes because this will give you a greater depth of field than f-2.8, which will give a shallow depth of field. Think of your pupil dilated to a tiny dot or when you squint your eye lids; this closes off the amount of light allowing the image to become more focused.

Most dark rooms have a safe light that will not damage Black and White developing paper unless it is color printing paper. If you are making a print with color developing paper it has to be done in absolute darkness. Entering the darkroom is more thrilling for me than the first time I walked into an arcade as a child. I still have the same game face but just different objective. Instead of beating Donkey Kong, my intention is to stay in the darkroom until my print has tonality that is true to my subject matter.

When I approach the darkroom, it is good to mentally prepare your self for burning and dodging. Burning is a procedure that adds light to a specific area of a photograph, and dodging blocks light from a segment of a photograph that needs less light because it is already to dark on the negative. Remember the negative is the reverse of the light captured, so if an area of the negative is too dark (dense) that means it will be too bright when the photograph is developed and you can burn this area in to give a darker tone or to add detail. If a specific region of a negative turns out too white, it will be extremely dark when printed as a photograph. If this is not desired, you should dodge the white section with a dodging tool, until the area has a desired lighter tone.

On many occasions, students get frustrated with burning and dodging because it is an art form of its own that requires lots of practice, along with steady skillful hands and well-made dodging and burning tools. When burning, I sometimes use my hands by placing them under the enlarger light during the exposure. I mold the light with my hands by forming a circle with right hand and I form a large c-shape with my left hand. The left c-shaped hand connects underneath with the right circled hand to concentrate light in one region of the photograph.

Other times, I cut a hole into a sheet of cardboard in the size of the area that needs to be burned; the burn will be a separate exposure. For example, if your exposure time for the entire print is twenty seconds, let’s say for a hypothetical landscape of a field, you will have to make another exposure for burning in an area that is not displaying enough detail because it is too light. Place the carefully cut out hole in the cardboard under the enlargers light that will block everything out except for the region of the print that needs more time. For this example, I will say a five second burn to a patch of grass belonging to the hypothetical field. Not counting the five second burn, this hypothetical photograph would have had about a thirty second exposure time.  

When dodging 8 by 10 photographs, I have found that long paper clips come in handy. I take long paper clips and straighten them out to enable me to place a circular piece of cut out cardboard on the tip by taping it together. Larger prints such as 16/20 require a straitened-out wire hanger with circular cardboard cut out and taped at the tip. A professor once told me about burning and dodging, “it’s like sculpting with light,” because you mold and block light from the photograph with your hands or tools as the enlarger projects your image on the developing paper for the calculated exposure time. If you are not prepared for taking time when manipulating captured time (pun jokingly and seriously intended here), you might as well not even enter the darkroom unless you want to have horrifically exposed prints (photographs) that display lazy projected exposures.

Before placing my negative onto a negative carrier, which is placed into the enlarger, I make sure both sides of the enlarger’s lens are cleaned off. Also, I clean off any dust and hairs on the negative. A dirty negative is a very negative way to make-a- photograph (pun only intended here for joking purposes). After placing my negative in the negative carrier that fits into the enlarger, I place an easel under the enlarger and I project the image without paper in order to focus the image. The enlarger enlarges the negative to the preferred size to print (4/6, 8/10, 11/14, 16/20). Once I have adjusted the focus and size of the image, I turn the enlargers light off and place a piece of developing paper into the easel. For Salvador’s Nativity series, I used 16/20 resin coated pearl paper. This type of paper has a balance between glossy and matt paper. I felt that 16/20 paper size would represent nature’s majesty in a grand scale depiction as apposed to 8/10 or 11/14.

To judge the over all exposure, a test print can prove very helpful. Usually, I use a magazine or a folder to place over an unexposed piece of developing paper only to reveal about a 1/16th section of the developing paper and I make an exposure for a seven second interval. I move the folder over to reveal 1/8th segment of the paper making another seven second exposure. Then I move the folder over again to expose ¼ of the developing paper for seven seconds and move the folder again which is now halfway exposing the sheet of developing paper. I continue this until the entire developing paper has been exposed in 1/16 vertical segments of seven second intervals.

When developed, the paper will visibly be divided by lines of light to display a progression from the threshold of darkness into the threshold of light. These tonal ranges help judge the overall final exposure time. The lightest section is seven seconds, and the darkest section has the most time, which in this case was forty-nine seconds. For Salvador, I chose a thirty-eight second exposure with the aperture set at f-8.

 I had to dodge Salvador’s body and snout (because it was to dark) to bring out more detail of steam emitting from his body covered in warm after birth that reacted to the cool air. I also had to dodge Frida’s head to reveal more detail because her head was falling into the threshold of darkness. I also felt the need to burn in the top left, top right, and bottom right corners, until all distracting detail of the brick wall was gone because Salvador and Frida needed to be surrounded by darkness, while they were enveloped by a beam of angelic morning that poured in from a window. My instructor, Dr. McFadden, was against my approach, he critiqued,

“Warren, you have eliminated too much of the scene. I want to see more information in the shadows. Is there any more detail available on the negative?”

    I fired back,

“There is and I purposely burned the corners in until they were charred black to surround Salvador and his mother Frida by darkness because nature can be mysterious and the darkness helps personify this notion. There’s a lot we don’t know about in the world, the universe, and the illuminated nativity is one aspect we understand. It’s there, showered in illumination for all to appreciate in a dramatic spot light created by nature.

The class liked my response; although, Dr. McFadden seemed appalled because his narcissism was damaged and wanted retribution.

“This print is too dense, and I think your making excuses for being too lazy to dodge in more detail in the shadows. That is if the negative even is exposed properly”

“Would you look at a Caravaggio or Rembrandt and say that’s too dark?”

“How can you compare yourself to them? That’s pompous.”

“The printing technique I used in Salvador’s birth was inspired by the lighting in Caravaggio’s “Entombment of Christ.”  I’m not saying I’m like Caravaggio or Rembrandt, but I am inspired by their paintings, which helped shape modern day photography. An image surrounded by darkness is dramatic to me.”

My teacher responds,

“People are going to want to see more detail.”

This comment annoyed me, so I had to defend my style,

“If someone doesn’t like it that’s fine, it’s not for everybody.”

“No, but Melissa’s portrait series of her sister is for everyone. Notice how a few of them are lit with a magenta gel.”  

 “Yeah, I know, you use magenta in every portrait you do.”

The class started to burst with laughter, and the teacher began to laugh while figuring out my grade on the assignment. Dr. McFadden swiftly fired back,

“And you use black and white photography for every one of your projects.”

“Most of the subjects I chose are better suited for black and white and you’re biased against it.”

“Warren, I’ve photographed in studios all over Europe and the U.S. and—

I cut off McFadden to fire back this response.

“Your right, I forgot, the entire world floods their subjects with magenta fucking gels.”

The class erupted with laughter, but, Dr. McFadden’s Narcissism is not something to mess with; especially when someone mocks his favorite color, but I wasn’t going to let him restrict my vision. I just barely passed his biased class with a C-.

When I finally finished my burning the print of Salvador’s nativity it was ready to be placed in a tray of developer and in a few seconds Salvador’s birth was exposed to my eyes. It takes seconds for the developer to form an image, but the developing paper should stay in for one minute, followed by the stop-bath for ten to fifth teen seconds and then the fixer between two to four minutes (with Resin Coated paper, aka RC paper). Then I placed the print into the tub of running water (rinse bath) for eight minutes (at least eight minutes, sometimes fifth teen to twenty).

The darkrooms safe light provides a sufficient dim source that enables photographers to see what they are doing, but it should never be used for judging the print quality. In order to critique true tonality, remove the print form the wash, and place it into a tray to take out of the darkroom and into the light to view the print. If the print has acceptable contrast you are now ready to right down your exposure times including any dodging and burning increments. Also write down the F-stop, the size of your aperture on the enlarger, and the height of your enlarger. If the darkroom has multiple enlargers jot down which enlarger you used to maintain consistency. When I saw Salvador’s birth in full illumination, my eyes filled with excitement and joy, which flowed down my face. My documentation of Salvador’s nativity is something I am still proud of, and remains as a series of prints that I feel honestly captures the sensationalism of nature; even though, it was done in captivity.      

As inspiring as these images were to me, it did not win a college exhibition. Do you know what did, a digital print of a topless girl staring into the camera with a plant in the background. In the plant was a peacock feather, I guess she was showing her feathers and ready to mate. Or something, I don’t know. AAAhhh!!! Ha! Ha! How outlandishly hilarious; besides, male peacocks are the birds with the array of miraculous color patterns not females (the peahens). Maybe the photographer thought it was deep to tell the model to look at the camera. I started to find out that more of this regurgitated artsy fartsy bullshit would win all the awards and grants.

Soon after, a neo-discrimination formed against those who would not embrace the new digital technology that skipped all the darkroom aspects I loved and respected. Eventually, if you wanted a job, any job at all involving photography, digital became the only option. Besides being cheaper, the only positive aspect I could think of about the digital process is that it did not use chemistry that could pollute the environment; although, the rapid digital method, swiftly causes people to burn through an abundance of paper, were as with the chemical process, photographers had to be conservative with their paper. Were as with the digital process, anyone with a computer and printer had a darkroom in their home, which causes trees to diminish with rapidity. And, as of now, film is more archival than a disk: memory card, memory stick, or computer as long as the film is stored properly. Unfortunately, the film process was on the endangered list, and my interest in photography became extinct.

   Another interest of mine that began to diminish was the zoo because it became too depressing and annoying to handle. As I sit here in the shade with my back against this oak tree, my eyes do not to see the sunflowers in front of me below the hill; instead my mind’s eye perceives my last visit at the zoo. Recalling my final visit, also reminds me of the first time I went to the zoo by myself to photograph. My photo 3 instructor Rene` had given me directions that I wrote down in my miniature note book; although, my dyscrephia jumbled things up too much for me to understand. She saw me struggling and asked,

“Dose it make sense?”

And I responded,

“Not really.”

Here let me see what you wrote.

Your probably not going to be able to read it, I can barely…

Nonsense, here let me…oh, your right, this is illegible.

(place directional dyscrephia here from a note book.)

As mentioned before, I have dyslexia and some people that are dyslexic have illegible hand writing called dyscerphia. My kind teacher tried to help by explaining,

“If you want, I can draw you a map and write in the roads and land markers.”

“That would be great.”

Here is her writing: (you could put in pretty had writing here, and it’s better because it’s a female telling me where to go; which happens to contradict the stereotype that women ask men for directions).

I still made some wrong turns because I jumbled up the directions that my Photo 3 instructor had illustrated and labeled like a cartographer. I showed a gas station attendant the hand drawn map and she pointed me in the right direction. After my first visit at the zoo by myself, I started to prefer going alone, this way no one could distract me when I photographed. The zoo became like a religious experience to me and I worshiped it by photographing my experience in order to share it with others in the way a pastor would spread the word of god, trying to recruit new members to his or her church.

Seeing a crocodile was more god-like to me than being in a church and seeing a sculpture of Jesus (Hey-Zeus) on the cross. The cross was made by humans, but the crocodile was made by nature, and it has changed very minutely since the Cretaceous period (the same era as the T-Rex, approximately 65.5 million years ago) because evolution carefully crafted such a miraculous organism that it has remained close to the same; while other organisms drastically changed or became extinct.

I continued going to the zoo, until my last unpleasant visit.  

On this occasion, all of my favorite exhibits were packed with people, which caused me to notice all of the depressing elements that I tried to ignore before, only this time I could not ignore the frustrations. All the people around the otter exhibit accentuated the tiny space they had to swim. In fact, they barely had any room on land in their captivity, much less in the tiny artificial pond. Maybe the gorillas would cheer me up, but when I arrived at the gorilla region, I was distracted by people banging on the glass and yelling.

“Do something, you stupid monkey.”

        What idiots. A gorilla is an ape. I learned that when I was five, and there was a sign over head on the entrance that clearly stated: Ape house. Yet, this grown man was acting like a foolish human pounding his chest. He was trying to mock the gorillas that just watched him with a confused stare. The man was the one on exhibit. He needed to be caged and exploited. The next area in the Ape house was chimpanzee exhibit. These people did not appreciate how closely related they were to the chimpanzee’s. The real impatient animals just pounded the glass trying to provoke the apes. Our DNA is 98% the same as a chimpanzee; yet, we act more primitive at times.

        As more people accumulated around the chimpanzee exhibit, I left to look at the gorillas again. The remaining people continued to pound the glass and one gorilla along with me could no longer take it. He had lean muscle covered in a short rough mars black coating of hair. He stopped supporting his wait on his hands and stood bipedal just like all of us and then pounded his robust chest. He stood about six-foot-five with his chest firmly pushed out, with out question, this was the alpha male and he wore his apex mark with pride in a sliver streak down his back. No more than an eye blink longer, he charged the glass with thunderous impact causing the apes on the other side to explode with cheers and clapping. People laughed and could not believe that this silver back charged them, but it was antagonized. It was annoyed, and so was I. I thought, well, maybe there will be less people at the River’s Rim section of the zoo.

The River’s Rim was a human made stream that flowed to mimic a river, which led to the Hippopotami and Elephant exhibits. The elephants had minute space compared to their size. In other areas of the River’s Rim, there were small exhibits on display that featured unhappy animals. To approach the exhibits, you have to walk down a path of coble stone pavement that resembled a rocky trail that is surrounded by vegetation. Impressively, it looked some what like a jungle; however, the animals felt the difference because it is hard to suppress instinct that has been implanted by nature. I walked down the jungle trial to notice a human made stream. When I arrived at the capybara exhibit, a gust of wind blew. Almost as calming as the breeze I’m experiencing while reliving this moment.

The capybara captivity was empty. No one was there; so, I tried to relish the moment. The capybara is the largest rodent in the world. It looked like a huge 70 to150-  pound Guinea Pig. Three capybara’s were mostly lounging around by a pool of water, but there was a fourth one that moved towards the small pool of water. It became gradually submerged into a reflection of its surroundings (plants, trees, and partly cloudy sky) and started to doggy paddle, I mean capybara paddle.

This scene looked refreshing and serene; until, I heard a slurping sound that interrupted my thoughts. A young couple with a child had walked up to a rail barrier that separated us form the capybaras below. This couple was in their early forties. They were morbidly obese and were sucking on ice cream cones. I am surprised they were not eating health food, just joking. The couple leaned against a barrier to support their bloated weight. Another capybara started to swim as the obese man opened his mouth and said with an ice cream gurgle in his throat.

“What the hell are they, some kind of pigs?”

“I ain’t ever seen no furry pigs.” His wife replied in an intelligent way with ice cream surrounding her mouth in a white ring.  

“I know what they look like.”

“They look like ginormous fucking Ginny pigs. Kinda funny looking.” He said with ice cream on his bloated nose.

I could no longer take these clever comments. So, I moved on to the next site. This is absolute tournament. There was a mad dash of people for the elephants, casuing me to head for the hyena captivity. Fortunately, there were just a few people; a family that seemed calm and interested in the hyenas. I was not going to judge them yet. They seem to be just observing.

When I arrived at the enclosure, I noticed a hyena chewing on a bone with some meat barely clinging to it. A metal railing blocked us from a steep drop that gradually rose to level ground and in the middle of the land is a hill with a den built into it. The den was made out of red granite to resemble a cave. The rest of the red rocky looking structure was swallowed by the earthy mound. On top of the hill a hyena chewed a meat covered bone, in the den another hyena rested. To everyone’s surprise, a third hyena came into view that walked around the side of the hill. The Hyena had a bone in its mouth and the family seemed mesmerized. The father began to speak.  

“Those are so tuff. A hyena can bring down a giraffe. It’s even stronger than a lion.”

        Of course, everything he said was wrong. A lion is more powerful than a hyena, but hyenas have a stronger biting force. Though, leopard’s posses such immense strength that it can lift a hoofed animal up a tree with its jaws to keep its prey safe from scavengers. Pound for pound, a leopard is the strongest feline in the animal kingdom: making it the Roy Jones Jr. of the cat family. However, it takes a pack of hyenas to bring down large prey. To bring down a giraffe, it would take an entire clan, and even then, I do not think they would try it unless desperation was caused from absolute starvation. Hyenas do scavenge from giraffe carcasses and lions do as well, but for a single hyena to bring down a full adult giraffe, yeah right. This foolish father was falsifying the animal kingdom to impress his family, and it was a load of hyena shit.

I left the Hyena exhibit to see the mongoose display, which was near-by and empty, but with my luck that would not last. Sure enough, after a few minutes a family walked up to notice a huddle of mongoose lying next to each other cuddling for warmth and security on a tree stump. The father of the family utters,

“What are these called again?”

“Mongoose,” his young daughter remarks, and a sign located on the security railing separating us from the mongoose exhibit clearly states this. The father was preparing to share his treasure chest of knowledge.

“I saw a nature show on them. Their so quick they can…..can’t remember. They can kill a…..god I can’t think of it.

I frustratingly shouted in my mind: A cobra!

“Is it a scorpion?”

 I screamed again to myself infuriatingly: A Cobra!

“I think a snake?” His daughter replied.

“Yeah, a rattle snake,” her father responded with disinformation.

I pondered frustratingly: I can’t take this right now or ever again.

After this unpleasant visit, I was going to need something to relax me, to take the God damn edge off. When I approached the line to a concession stand, liter filled the ground by the tables. While I stood in line, children were feeding the pigeons and ducks. A zookeeper came over to them and told them to stop. Unfortunately, the parents did not enforce the zoo keeper’s demands. In fact, the dad kicked at one of the ducks as if it were the duck’s fault his foolish offspring were feeding it.

“Get out of here you lousy duck,” the father cried out!

The ducks didn’t leave, but I got out of there and have never returned to the zoo since. People usually go to the zoo for entertainment not to learn and develop an appreciation for these animals. No wonder so many animals are becoming extinct, and are also joining the endangered species list. When I left the zoo that day my hope for humanity began to diminish. On the way to the parking lot, I noticed the pavement was also covered in litter. While walking to my car, frustration began to relentlessly gnaw at my mind.

As my aggravation grew, thoughts began to form, the cycle of life kills to live, although we kill too much. Our brief moment is destroying this fragile world because wealth and power obsess our minds. Instantly humans including my self began to frustrate me. We love to hate and destroy, yet, we our considered more intelligent than an Amur leopard with an estimated more than 60 left in the wild, according to a poll conducted by the WWF (World Wildlife Fund, not World Wrestling Federation) or a mountain gorilla with an estimated 880 left (WWF poll), or the Javan rhinoceros with only an estimated 60 left in the wild (WWF poll). These animals do not destroy their own habitat like we so often do. These three highly endangered animals are considered wildlife, when our life is constantly wild; killing everything; even ourselves, where as animals kill to survive.

After thinking about humanities greed, I wrote down some of those thoughts as soon as I reached my car. In the driver’s seat, my thoughts streamed on to the back of an old receipt. When I finished writing, I looked around at the parking lot and noticed people fighting over a parking space. An obese family in a Minnie-van had been waiting, while a couple tried to steal there parking space from them with there suburban. Maybe if the over weight family would routinely park in the farthest parking space they might actually get some much-needed exercise. Eventually, security guards noticed the commotion and tried to resolve the conflict. My window was slightly cracked which allowed me to hear them explosively shout at one another as the non-intimidating elderly, scrawny security guards tired to gain control of the situation.

The officer’s demands caused violent remarks and this is when I rowed up my window and turned on my radio to drown them out. My frustration had reached a peak. A family of sloth gluttons and a lazy prideful couple refused to walk an extra few hundred feet to the zoo’s entrance. The back of the parking lot had an abundance of empty spaces and they had to fight over who had the closer space like toddlers over a new toy.

Not surprisingly, the radio was filled with talking DJs who went on about celebrity gossip. When I turned the station to Classical 89.8, it was temporally dominated by a news update about global warming, which reinforced my agitation for humanity. Some people say humans are not causing global warming; instead, they claim the earth is just going through cycles. The earth has gone through many cycles over the approximate six billion years in its existence. Though, the increase in population is causing more pollution and this is speeding up or slowing down the earth’s warming and cooling cycles.                 

     Chapter 4: Becoming a Drifter

The global warming news up date had struck with a potent pessimistic blow that lingered after I graduated college. I did not attend my graduation ceremony because it felt phony. Throwing a graduation cap into the air to celebrate a conformist commercial future that displayed the absence of artistic integrity was something I could not celebrate; conformity was something I could rarely do, and when I did conform, it was because I had to for a job, not for acceptance. My interest for a career in photography or career in general faded away like an old print. I became tired of living in the present and longed for all the brilliant minds of the deceased. That is why I had to drift back to when these master thinkers thrived.

Some of the basic aspects of photography never left me. My obsession for time manipulation grew beyond any previous interest. Soon after obsessively pondering thought speed and space time, I started to meditate just like my grandma had often suggested,

“Warren mediation might help you concentrate better.” Now I do it every night.” She also said, “Meditation could even help you conquer your learning disabilities. No longer would ADD be an obstacle, it would be another defeat in your path to understanding your mind because really you don’t have disabilities you have extra sensory abilities. When you were a child you were dropped, which caused severe trauma to your head. They thought you might have brain damage, worse you were temporally pronounced dead. Some how, the doctors brought you back to life, but who knows how long or how far away you were from this realm. We all thought we had lost you, but you returned. I have read that when a near death experiences occur, other door ways can open, door ways that are not seen by everyone; perhaps, only seen by a viewer that is gifted. Since psychometry is in your genes, the near-death experience heightened your genetic gifts. With heredity in your favor, who knows what your mind is capable of, and it is up to you. People may tell you that your fate is written by God, but maybe at times we can become the author of our own destiny. You can rewrite your own fate if you want to, if you believe in existentialism.”

I was eighteen years old when she first told me these motivating words, and this wisdom still lingers in my mind. I never stopped meditating and never ceased using God’s pen, but the writing analogy didn’t work for me any more. Because of my familiarity with Einstein’s theory of general relativity, space time is a fabric that may not have everything permanently woven into it. By borrowing a Creator’s or Creators’s needle, I could re-stitch a miniscule fraction in the fabric of space time.

Eventually it occurred to me; if I touched a painting that Van Gogh painted, maybe I could find away to his past. By using my psychomic touch, maybe I could try to tap into suspended energy from the past that would form a pathway possessing enough anti-matter, which could collide with my matter to create a time traveling burst that would lead to when Van Gogh existed. My psychomic touch was at its height, and my confidence almost surpassed my gift. Just like someone’s watch or pen, Van Gogh’s painting had his emotions, his thoughts, suspended in time like a fossil. Now it was time to unleash this energy so I could clone the past.

I went to the art museum to find the Van Gogh painting that illustrates a reaper in a field cutting down wheat, in the back ground the sun blazes with golden light. As I walked into the museum, I saw a variety of remarkable pieces of art, all of it was very distracting. Meditation helps me focus, but never fully rid me of my ADD. The art museum had a remarkable photography exhibit that temporarily featured Diana Arbus and it was hard to resist. I saw the famous black and white photograph of Twins on display. The photograph of twins had an eerie quality that influenced Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining” (based on Steven King’s novel). Remember the scene in the movie when the kid Danny rides his big wheel in the long halls of the Overlook hotel, and notices the phantom twins blocking his path; very reminiscent of Arbus’s photograph, but not of Steven King’s novel.

I also saw the photograph of the dwarf, which allegedly, Arbus slept with in exchange for him to allow her to photograph his portrait. After reading the book a “Portrait of Diana Arbus,” I now realize that the rumor may not be to far from the truth. In the photograph, a Dwarf sits on a bed with a bottle of liquor in the background. It has been said that the bottle might have had something to do with the origin of that image. According to the biography, Diana was not a drinker, or drug user, but was addicted to sex; especially, attracted to deviant scenarios, perhaps this was one of them.  

When I had an eye full of Arbus’s imagery, I forced my self to proceed with my objective. When I left the Arbus exhibit, a part of me had stayed; maybe I’ll visit her next. As for now, it was time to walk towards the Van Gogh room; until, Georgia O’Keeffe paintings stared me in the face. The curator of the museum must have dug deep in the archives because Arbus and O’Keeffe were not on display before. What bad timing, the day I decide to visit one master other masters were brought to my attention: sometimes I hate ADD. I left the O’Keeffe exhibit only to be distracted again, it was a room dedicated to instillation art.

Instillation art is an art form in which the artist places, or hangs things in a room that can reflect a theme such as society, politics, and religion or symbolize a past experience. When I entered the room, I noticed an oak kitchen table set for dinner with the absence of food. On the table were eating utensils properly arranged by each plate, four in total, and two candles placed in the center of the table with a clear glass vase that holds plastic sunflowers. On a wall near the table was a mirror and to the right of the mirror was a huge flower pot that held synthetic corn crop size sunflowers and enormous peacock feathers.

The arrangement of the flowers and feathers tantalized me enough with the urge to photograph. I had not photographed since my last visit to the zoo; therefore, I did not bother to bring a camera. This is a dreadful mistake for a photographer to make. Then I remembered, my cell phone had the feature to photograph, but I had never used it before. It also had a calendar and calculator feature, just joking, most cell phones do, and who cares; nowadays, cell phones have become miniature computers, video recorders, video phones, you name it.

As I was saying, I had never used it before and now it was an opportunistic moment to take advantage of this brilliant feature. I enabled the camera feature on my cell phone in order to capture this odd moment. When I held my phone up to photograph a young woman walked into my frame. She must have sensed my presence and turned around looking into my camera in the foreground to the left of the frame with the peacock feathers and sunflowers in the vase to the right of the frame in the background. I said to her,

“If you don’t want me to keep this I’ll erase it, but it’s an interesting portrait.”

“Can I see it?” She responded with curiosity.

“Sure.” I remarked.

“I look terrible. You caught me off guard.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll erase it.”

I acted like I deleted it.

“I don’t mean to be rude, my names Matilda.”

We shake hands.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Warren.”

“I’m here for art appreciation class. I have to write a paper on my experience. Could you photograph me and my friend in front of the feathers?”

“Sure.”

She retrieves her friend who was in the next exhibit room and hands me her phone to photograph them. When I touch her phone, I concentrate on not using my psychomic touch to avoid distractions. As I give her camera back, she says,

“Thanks.”

 And I respond,

“No problem.”

“We better get going, were meeting up with someone. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I respond.

 Finally, I enter the Van Gogh room. Good, the reaper painting has not been changed out with something else. It still hung on the wall in the same place, and I had my hand on it trying to reach into the past. Searching for a pathway to drift through; when unexpectedly, my psychomic touch released a dark portal in the wall behind the hanging painting. Oddly, the painting did not fall; it just appears to be ignoring modern physics by hanging on nothing but air in front of a   dark circular portal with the circumference of six feet. My hand is still spread out on the reaper painting; as I perceive with perplexity, the dark portal behind my hand and the painting, a museum guard enters the Van Gogh room while screaming out,

“You can’t touch the paintings! Sir, you can’t touch the………………….”

But he was too late; I had already passed through the pathway appearing behind the painting, which has temporarily become part of the wall. As I entered the portal, my matter instantaneously collides with the portals anti-matter causing a bright flash; around that moment, I felt like luminous energy. At least, I remember thinking that, but the rest is lost in darkness, and moments of luminosity. Around that time, my eyes opened to me sitting against a tree with my legs stretched out. The hill gave me an immense vantage point that over looks a field of corn crop size sunflowers, brilliantly illuminated by the sun, while shaded by the colossal oak tree.

My preparation to meet an intimidating, argumentative mind has ended. No longer can I procrastinate; no longer can I relax by this calming oak tree trying to build up nerve to meet a master. As I arise to my feet, complex questions entered my mind. What will I say to him when we meet? What would Theo say, that’s it. Maybe I could say I was sent by his brother Theo to try and resolve the conflict between him and Paul Gauguin because they constantly argue. Even better, say your brother wanted me to have Van Gogh explain his paintings to help buyers understand what it is you are trying to do. This will work, he’s desperate to sell a painting, and out of 1,800 works, Van Gogh has only sold one. It has to work. I’ll just say the letter should have already arrived, or maybe it’s on the way.

Better yet, I could tell him I’m an art dealer that is interested in his artwork, and Theo told me to meet with Van Gough to get a better understanding of his art. Ultra-anticipation surges from within, and starts to swell. I could not let this anxiousness show outwardly because it would destroy all my efforts to meet a fanatical genius. My excitement to meet Van Gogh reaches a pinnacle that soon turns into anxiety that is too strong to hide. For the moment, my hands are the most cowardly body part. They quiver more than a snake’s rattle. How can I stop the tremors?  

I walk down the grassy hill, which the oak tree emerges from, as I think about the oak trees shade. Thoughts of my grandma’s advice about meditating shoot through me; “Take control of your mind Warren.” Some how, I have to conceal my anxiety. Concentrate! I need to hide my fears by casting them into a very dense shade. Become the small sunflowers that are cast in shad by the oak tree, take control, and think serene thoughts, while taking in breaths. That’s it, concentrate on the breathing. That always helps, just like my grandma told me.

I’m now entering the flower field that glows with yellow saturation and exquisiteness. The field of sunflowers are taller than corn crops, this hides me from my fears, while walking I’m still concentrating on my breathing. I feel secure and hidden as if I’m still under the oak tree’s shade. I also feel like this is a good time to relive myself, besides the sunflowers need watering anyways. Thirty seconds go by and I am still urinating, this is the ultimate Clydesdale piss.

Thinking about Clydesdales, I am reminded of when I went to the Beer Garden with my parents and my grandma. My parents loved going there because it was the place they went to on their first date. Sometimes my mom and dad would just want to sit in the shade of an umbrella table and sip beer; grandma and I would wander off and look at the many different flowers and plants, and take rides on one of the Clydesdale drawn carriages. I was only four when I had last visited the beer garden with my parents, but at times, it seems like it had just happened, my grandma says, “I have a steal trap mind.”

For now, my tremors in my hands cease and my anxiety is defeated. I am leaving the sunflower field and entering the woods. It will not be long till I reach town, just about ten minutes or so. As I approach the town, my heart thumps again. When I approach Van Gough’s little yellow house, things change. Just the sight of the yellow house causes my hands to shake with anticipation for the unknown. God damn it, my hands are trembling violently. With in me is a strong force that can detect a vastly powerful mind near by, causing my extra sensory phenomenon to go berserk. Normally, I can not sense things like this, but this mind is uncanny.

I am beginning to approach his town as my heart beat quickens. It seems like my entire body is palpitating with the most powerful pulse my heart has ever produced. My organs throb and my mind is a chaotic mess. But I have to compose my self, the way Van Gogh would paint, extremely fixated on what I need to accomplish. I see a street leading to his tiny yellow home. As I approach closer, I see an alley on the right side of the street. I wonder if this is the same alley where he offered part of his ear to a prostitute, and the exact alley Paul Gauguin and Van Gogh saw each other for the last time before parting ways on that foreboding knight. I don’t blame Gauguin because he saw the threatening moon gleam of a knife in the hand of Van Gogh. Only then, the alley way was sinisterly dark with fright, at least there is still day light left, but not for long. The light helps decrease my fear a little bit.

No matter when and where I meet him, I just hope he accepts my presence: my story about being an art dealer, and that his brother Theo sent me to purchase his art. He has been rejected by many and will accept few others than his brother to hear his thoughts, his feelings. On the contrary, he should be excited to hear from a buyer considering he has only sold one painting in his entire life time. His emotions are suspended in time on a canvas like a fossil, and art historians have been extracting meaning from his work ever since his paintings and illustrations received critical recognition. From his letters to Theo, we learned a lot. But no one has been able to ask him questions about his process. If I can befriend him, I’ll be able to interview him like a journalist without a pen or camera, but I will not care about the publics right to know; the interview will only be for my curiosity.

Damn it, my hands are starting to violently tremble with fear. I feel woozy, like I might faint. It feels hard to breath; my lungs are not working properly. I’m hyperventilating and my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m within about twenty-five feet from his small yellow home; though, it is a little bigger than I had imagined. It doesn’t look so menacing, why all the nervousness. Just get it together for fucks sake. I’m going to lean against this street lamp to keep from fainting. I just need to catch my breath. I’m going to concentrate on the street lights dancing flame. Watching it move back and forth, almost hypnotic. There, I’m feeling better…oh my God! Is that him shouting in French at me, it is, and he’s staring right at me? He must have opened his door, while I was preoccupied with my irregular breathing and heart beats. I must not show fear because he’s too intuitive; he’ll probably be able to sense it. Wait a minute; he’s speaking to me in French again. He’s shouting,

“Quelque chose ne va pas?!”

“Sorry, I only speak English.”

“Is something wrong?” Van Gough questions.

“No, just winded. Trying to catch my—“

“I have been watching you struggle to walk. Do you feel ill?”

“I feel great.”

“That is not the scene I saw; I have been painting the street from the vantage point of my window. Everything seemed ordinary, until you stumbled into the scene. If only you could have viewed yourself. I think you would agree that you appeared to be an odd sight.”

“I’m sure l looked strange before, but I’m fine now,” I said in an attempt to reassure him.

I do not sense any hostility with this exchange of words. He doesn’t seem to be agitated with his tone of voice. Slowly, I’ll move away from the lamp post and approach Van Gogh. My weight shifts from leaning on the post to letting my legs carry the weight. Still slightly winded, but that will pass soon along with my heart palpitations.

“Are you sure you don’t need to sit down to properly compose your self.”

“I feel fine! I’m just winded because I hurried from the train station to deliver good news. Your brother Theo sent me.”

“My brother would have written me, if such news were true.

“He did send Paul Gauguin in person,” I explained.

“He wrote me first. How did you know that?

“Your brother told me he sent Gauguin and wanted to send me as well because I’m an art dealer, and tremendous admire of your work,” I expressed while trying to hide my nerves.

 “Paul Gauguin is a friend and a painter, who paints with conviction. You are just a stranger that speaks of an outlandish tale.”

“No, please listen, I am an art dealer. My name….

Van Gough interrupts with exhilaration and confusion.

“You are an art dealer?”

“Yes, my name is Warren Navarro. Your brother told me to come see you in person, in the hope that I will buy some of your art work. I own a gallery space in Paris; not too far from your brother, and from what I’ve seen, from what you have sent your brother already; I have become very intrigued and wanted to see more in person.”

“An art dealer?!” Van Gough says with still some doubt, but with more optimism this time.

“Yes, an art dealer and I love your paintings.”

“Why would Theo not send me a letter explaining this situation? Why would he give you a train ticket, when he could have given me a ticket to go there?”

I sensed opportunity to move in closer.

“I paid for my train ticket, and would gladly pay for some of your new paintings, if you could just show me your work.”

“I still do not understand why he would not send me a letter to notify me of your arrival?”

“He did, didn’t you receive it yet?”

“NO.”

“Unfortunately, it must have been lost. It has happened to me before. Anyways, are you still interested in a buyer?”

“Yes, I am low on painting supplies, and have little food to eat.”

I move in even closer with the intention to bribe him. From the inside of my dress coat’s right pocket; I pull out a brown glass flask (one pint and with the label cleanly removed) of whisky with my left hand.

“I have a flask of whisky and also a gift.”

With my right hand, I retrieve a sunflower from the left inside pocket of my dress coat. I hand Van Gogh the flower.

“How did you know that I was fond of sunflowers?”

Van Gogh asks, while holding the flower as he gazes into it as if mystified by the surprising gift.

“Your brother told me a lot about you.”

Van Gogh stares into the flower analyzing it as if he’s Nostradamus looking into the future; instead, he looks into the past.

“I never grow tired of sunflowers. Some think that if you have seen one, you have seen them all, and that is the farthest from the truth. Each one is unique because sunflowers display a vein pattern on the petals, which distinguish one from another like a finger print. I have herd people say they are all the same, but these people are all the same to me because they ignore the magnificence that nature creates. This is one reason why I paint, I have hope that my art can help these oblivious people realize what they have been missing.“

“I agree. When I photograph Grevy’s zebras at the zoo, people are unaware that each zebra has a different stripe pattern just like the uniqueness of a finger print. Still, people claim they all look the same. When I go to the park, I photograph birds as an old couple watch with oblivious eyes. They don’t realize that their viewing direct descendents of dinosaurs.”

Van Gogh directs his attention from the flower towards me.

“Descendents of what?”

“Never mind, you were saying,” I remarked.

I decide it’s a good moment to move in even closer hoping each time will give me a better chance to be accepted by him. His eye’s become wide and seem as though they glow brighter than two orbs of light lit with frustration. He begins to speak again.

“How does one become so mundane? How does one become content with being naive? If you deny natures beauty, you are already dead to the world.

“I agree,” I responded with hypnotic awe.”

“Nature is a master artist that painters try to mimic. That is why I see things differently. I do not want to plagiarize God; I want to interpret what God has created. And in my mind, an array of colors blaze with the illumination of stars. Since you brought gifts, allow me to give you something in return. Please come in. What did you say your name was?”

“Warren, and its nice to meet you Mr. Van Gogh.”

As we shake hands, he says,

“Please, call me Vincent. Come inside, I think I have some absinthe and bread left. I have not been this surprised since Theo sent me the letter that explained Paul Gauguin was coming to stay. I always write him back ‘with a hand shake in mind,’ however, it is always better to make direct contact with some one. Next time you see him, shake his hand with me in mind and tell him I am grateful.”

“With pleasure.”

I responded, while I pat him on the back with a gesture of gratitude. We walk in through the Lilac blue door way and my eyes are met with an abundance of canvases and drawings. There are paintings scattered on the wooden floor, and the walls are covered with framed and unframed works. Some canvases are stacked in mounds of art. I also see rolled paper that clutters the floor which I am assuming is probably sketches and charcoal drawings. My eyes begin to gorge themselves like a glutton that only eats with his eyes, trying to take everything in at once.

My excitement is comparable to my first experience in a comic book store analyzing, trying to take in every intricacy. Such as, the shelves and racks that displayed new issues of comic book covers splashed with a variety of incredible colorful compositions, these sights were exhilarating to me. The smell in Van Gogh’s house resembles the musty, yet, pleasantly distinctive odor that older comic books and other vintage print omit, and to a collector this nostalgic aroma is thrilling. Unlike the comic store, I had never seen such an assortment of imagination in my life; before my eyes, were a master’s collection of original works, illustrations, and rough drafts; it was a mass production of an obsessive passion.

Then I felt woozy as I noticed a painting hanging next to the kitchen window. It was the “Potato Eaters,” one of my favorite paintings by him because it documents with an honest objective eye. My sight was caught by this master piece causing me to become in a trance. Eventually, I walked towards it, mesmerized as Van Gough dissects his painting.

“I call that the ‘Potato Eaters.’ ‘Those people dig into the earth with the same hands they eat with. The lighting is done with the Dutch master Rembrandt in mind. I did a series of Peasant paintings and drawings because I consider my self a peasant painter. ‘”

Van Gogh pulled out one of two chairs from under a small splintery wooden kitchen table. The table is softly lit with a gentle glow that pores in from a kitchen window that is to the right of the framed “Potato Eaters.” On the middle of the table is a horizontally placed wood cutting board that has a half loaf of bread placed on it. A metallic knife lies diagonal underneath the cutting board. Clinging to the knife, were crumbs and remains of butter.

On the left side of the table, is an empty clear wine glass next to a full green bottle of absinthe (the size of an average wine bottle). On the end of the right side of the table is a wine glass with a few ounces of absinth left, that is, until Van Gogh finishes it in a relishing swig. He then reaches into a cabinet and hands me a clean glass, with out asking me, he pours a cup of absinthe for me. I see the tinted green liquid, and my mind and tongue become intimidated. Van Gough’s eyes become charismatically wide as he says,

“How splendid, there is more absinth left than I had called to mind.”

“Thanks, but I might just drink my whisky.”

“Nonsense, I have more than enough left for the both of us.”

“Maybe I’ll just drink my whisky, help yourself if you want…

“I would be offended if you did not have at least two glasses with me. We can also drink your whisky. Here, have a seat.”

He requested that I sit, even though he was still standing. I sat down against my will, fighting the urge to look through his astonishing collection of paintings. As I sat, my foot brushed up against something. It was a rolled-up bundle of paper sketches. When I reached down to retrieve some of his rolled art, I notice some empty bottles. As I unroll one of the many illustrations, I am astounded. I have never seen…....

“Are you out of your God damn mind!!!? Those sketches are not fit for any other eyes, but my own and Sena!”

Van Gough demands with such frightening force as he snatches the drawing from me. I’m too startled to respond verbally; instead, I just look on with a scolded expression, while listening and drinking my absinth; which tastes like potent black liquorish that burns a trail down my esophagus.  

“However, you can see this one. It is another portrait of Sena called “Sorrow”. In this charcoal drawing, I was able to properly represent her with ease. I did not struggle with this one. I felt as though part of Sena’s soul helped me illustrate some of the figure study. “Sorrow” did not take me long to complete. Gauguin say’s I work to fast; although, I do not think he works enough. The days and nights grow shorter, the only way to be true to my subject matter is to quickly release my inner feelings outwardly on a canvas or in this case, on paper. When I begin something, I work like one possessed. I became especially infatuated while drawing “Sorrow” because I loved Sena dearly. We had an understanding of each other. Most people would probably find her repulsive, but I find her beautiful. In her face and mostly in her eyes, I see the story of an exhausted, stressful soul. I to have suffered through the years; I am thirty-six, though, I feel older.”

The woman Van Gogh nicknames as Sena was a prostitute named Clasena Hornic. She gave Van Gogh agonizing heart ache, syphilis, and Gonorrhea. Van Gogh walks over to one of the canvases leaning against a wall as he guzzles his glass of absinthe.

“This is a self-portrait and in it, I see the same story that is written in Sena’s eyes. How I pity her, how I pity myself, we both had a mutual understanding, so why did she not stay with me? That horror was impregnated with a bastard. Enough talk about that woman. Do not speak of her or that drawing again. I do not want to remember her because she torments my mind. Yet, I can not forget her. Is god mocking me because I failed to become an evangelist? I feel as though I have found a better way to preach the beauty of god by using my art, instead of my bible.”

Van Gogh grabs the charcoal illustration “Sorrow” from me while Van Gough ventilates his anger, a subconscious psychometry reading from holding the drawing “Sorrow” causes all of Van Gough’s feelings to channel through me consciously and the feelings want out. I have to fight the desire to cry. Van Gogh violently clenches the bottle of Absinthe as if it’s Sena’s throat. While he is not looking, I wipe my tears as he pours another glass for himself and does not forget to refresh my glass. Then he explains himself further.

“I do not believe in suicide that is why I drink. No body will ever accuse me of committing a sin. Every time I drink these poisons, I sometimes feel better, but usually it just drives me madly to the grave. I use to commit self flagellation with a horse’s rein when I was becoming an evangelist to punish myself for sinful thoughts. We have to feel in life, and apart of feeling is experiencing pain. Instead of committing self flagellation now, since my days of being a minister are gone, I drink to punish my body. It’s a gradual suicide that I have to commit, which will help punish me for the rest of my life.”

 Van Gough blots down his drink, and I feel obligated to join him. He rises up from his chair to grab some matches and a candle, while I experience a coughing fit caused by the absinthe going down the wrong pipe, and it seems to scorch my esophagus. He places the candle in the middle of the table and tries to light it, but fails, though, his second match is successful. The kitchen is lit with light dimmer than the “Potato Eaters,” which is fitting because this peasant painter suffers from greater poverty. Van Gough does not even have potatoes to eat; usually he consumes bread with tea followed by absinthe. He spends most of the money his brother Theo sends him on paint supplies, which takes a toll on him financially, leaving him little for the basic necessities. The “Potato Eaters” have each other, all Van Gough has for company is the letters Theo writes him, and lately, the brief company of Paul Gauguin, who came based on his brothers pleading request, and out of respect for Van Gough’s painting.

Even though my glass is not completely empty, Van Gough pours me more absinthe as he explains the gloomy manner of his life that spawned his evil habit. The flame of a candle seductively dances trying to entice my ADD, in the way Megan would try to steal attention when I was focused on a project. Van Gogh speaks again, and I force myself to pay attention. Absinthe is anywhere from 80 to 150 proof; even though I have a high tolerance, the alcohol is already starting to take effect as Van Gogh explains himself.

“I never forget to toast God with him in mind toasting back, I might have failed at becoming an evangelist, but with that failure came new hope. I was meant to paint, and with that I celebrate life, creation, that which is God. In celebration of my gift of thought, I try never to forget to toast our creator. I do not care when I die, or how long I live. Hopefully, it will be long enough to finish what I want to accomplish. After my work here is done, I will be ready.”

Van Gogh abruptly finishes another glass and it’s becoming hard for me to keep up with him. Absinthe is far too potent for me to handle, but I better not offend him, I better down the rest of my drink.

“I actually have enough for one more glass,” Van Gogh mentioned.  

“That’s okay, you can have some of my wisk--”

“No, I insist, we can share it. I don’t have much, but at least it is something to give to an admirer of my art.”

Van Gogh pours me my half and half for himself. Then he starts to look around the room.

“I admit I got carried away by buying more frames than I could afford. My urge to paint controlled me, and I could not stop painting. My supplies are wearing thin and I could not afford enough frames for all my art. When I look at my work a great excitement erupts from with in. The only way I can show this outwardly is to paint feverishly, non-stop. From time to time, I lose patience with Paul; he doesn’t have the ‘Dutch work ethic’ that I do. Frustratingly, every artist I meet is the same way. Why do so many lack passion? Why do so few, love how I love. Perhaps, if my life would have been different, I would not need to drink because then I would have my baby brother Vincent, alive just like Theo. I wonder what my name would have been if that had happened.”

Van Gogh finishes his drink and I finish mine.

“Could I have some of that whisky,” Van Gogh asks?

“Of course.”

Instead of drinking from the flask, I wanted to ration our only alcohol we had left. I pour a shot for each of us in our wine glasses, but Vincent gives me a look that says,” Is that all,” so I pour him a double and his melancholy gaze vanishes as he begins to speak, while forming a Mona Lisa smile.

“I don’t think it will be too long now, before I see baby Vincent. It won’t be long till I see him. Until I see my baby brother. He died and then I was born; only I was shunned by my parents. They longed for baby Vincent in the heavens, while I was stuck with them in hell. I miss my deceased baby brother. We share the same name. I feel a powerful bond with him; even though, we never consciously met, it seems as if we have met in an unconscious life. Maybe he was reincarnated as me. Maybe I am him. That is why, in the portrait of me, I gave my self almond eyes in attribute to the Japanese. They are Buddhist and believe in reincarnation. Their paintings make me feel as though, I understand them because art is the language we all speak, and through my painting, I preach the celebration of everything that is beautiful to me; everything that is nature. When I die, I will leave behind my paintings, not to impress the public, but to celebrate my interpretations of life. All the moments that bring happiness will stay here in this world as my death will take me to the stars; maybe that is when I will finally get to see my baby brother….”

Vincent begins to cry, and this is a relief because I no longer have to suppress my emotions. I can release them along with him. As I cry, depressingly vivid imagery lapse before my mind. I visualize baby Vincent’s death, and how   adult Van Gogh’s parents treated the living Van Gough as if he had died, and had become an invisible apparition. This deeply starts to upset me because my mom abandoned me and dad. His anguish reminds me of how my grandma’s suffering drove her to the bottle. But like Van Gogh, she loved some one that rejected her in a harsh manner. After my grandpa ended his life, this brought grandma closer to the bottle, and then to the inevitable. Maybe she thought this would bring her closer to the one that pushed her away. When you love someone, it’s hard to stop, and I’m sure, in another life, she still loves.

The remembrance of my grandma’s torment is starting to remind me of my own torture, no matter what, I will always love Megan......?????? What the fuck am I talking…....I mean thinking? I don’t love that selfish cunt! This absinthe is really starting to get a hold of me. Anyways, I will have a drink to kill my pain. Vincent notices me crying as he raises his glass for a toast to an understanding, he’s not saying that, but the feeling is mutual as it is spoken with his mannerisms. I pour a shot from my flask into my empty wine glass, and raise my glass to toast. When the glasses connect, I see his baby brother’s funeral. Even though, Van Gogh had not been born yet; I see him hovering over the casket as a young phantom staring at an even younger Vincent (his deceased baby brother) which causes a wave of emotions to wash over me like a rich blue sea. All I can do is sob.

The LONG CRY SEEMS LIKE AN INTERNAL RELEASE THAT OUR SPRITS NEEDED TO SHED……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………After sobbing we picked up where we left off, meaning,

we drink more; Van Gogh garbs my flask, and takes a deep swig as he jerks his head back aggressively as if he’s saying subconsciously, take that body, you are just a captivity for my spirit, not a vessel. I don’t need you when I’m finished here. When my work is done, you will not be needed any more.  And then, Van Gogh notices a bottle on his counter top with some absinthe still left. He springs up from his chair to grab it, and pours us each a glass. While being distracted by Van Gogh’s little brother’s death, he killed the rest of my flask; that selfish bastard didn’t leave one drop. Van Gough starts to speak, as I take a drink of the absinthe he had just poured me.

“I just thought of something, it is about a tree that I drew in charcoal to go along with “Sorrow” (the figure study of Sena the prostitute). I meant to show you it before because both drawings go together. Where did I put it? Let me find it. I want to see if you can understand something.”

Van Gogh leaped from his chair and scurried through a pile of drawings that lay on the wooden floor close to the kitchen table.

“God damn it, where the hell is it. I can’t find it….. Of course!”

At that moment, Van Gogh rushes to his bedroom, and checks under his bed. Excitedly, Van Gough exits his room with a rolled charcoal illustration of a dying tree, and a half-finished bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Do you see a resemblance,” Van Gogh asked?

“Are you asking my opinion because you said not to speak of the drawing “Sorrow” again?”

After I ask for clarification, Van Gogh takes it as an insult and becomes impatient.

“Don’t patronize me, I know what I said. Now, I am asking if you see some kind of relation between both drawings?”

“I don’t see anything,’’ I timidly reply.

         “Here it is (Van Gogh points to the tree and woman). Do you see the resemblance?”

Van Gogh demands as he takes a huge mouthful of wine, and passes it to me. Of course, I gladly take a tremendous gulp causing my lips to bleed with a streaming spill that splatters my dress coat and pants. They’re just clothes, but that’s the least of my worries; I better try and answer his question.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

I take another swig wine, while trying to contemplate how the tree resembles Sena.

“Van Gogh snatches the bottle from my hand and shouts, “Do you see the   similarities!?”

“Don’t shout at…”

“I’m shouting because you can’t hear, just like you can’t see.” LOOOOOOK AT IT FOR GOD SAKES! “

“I don’t know?”

Van Gogh drinks the rest of the wine in a gluttonizing gulp, and then, Van Gough starts to aggressively demand,

“Looooook at it damn you!”

“Wait a minute…Give me a second to think. I can’t think when you’re yelling at…”

“There is no waiting; either you see it, or you are a blind fool.”

He is becoming a raving tyrant of thought. The absinthe was taking over both of us. He wouldn’t let me complete one thought out loud…wait a minute…a notion of relevance struck me hard, but I am too drunk to say it. I do see. It’s brilliant. I try to properly communicate my thoughts out loud …

“The dying tree symbolizes Sena,” I blurted out with enthusiasm.

Van Gogh explains,

“Finally, you see it. They are both harshly struggling to live. When these two…”

For a moment, I became lost in an epiphany that is my own allegory. This realization made me briefly tune out Van Gogh. Megan was more like the oak tree than the sunflowers. My association with her and the sunflowers is still accurate because they are both beautiful, but internally, she is more like the oak tree that shaded the hill I rested at before coming to visit Van Gogh. Yeah, she is gorgeous like the sunflowers; yet, she does not want anyone to take the spot light. The Oak tree’s shade is preventing the sunflowers on the hill to grow tall like the sunflowers in the field. Her insecurities implant an urge to stop anything, or anyone else from stealing the attention. I didn’t think of this before, but the tree has some sunflowers growing on its trunk. As if the flowers are rebelling against the tree to send a message,

“You can not stop us from being who we are by defusing our light. We’ve discovered how to still grow tall. We have found away to grow on you. The taller you grow, we will also emerge, and when you die, we will continue to thrive, just like the tall field of sunflowers that you despise.”  

That makes a lot of sense and….............what the hell is all that noise? Oh shit, Van Gogh is actually in my face shouting. Is this really happening, I think the absinthe has turned on me? I feel light and woozy. Snap out of it, he’s still shouting close to my face. Jesus fucking Christ this is really happening. Why is he doing this? Think. Think. Calm yourself. How can I calm my self when a relentless lunatic is shouting obscenities at me in…now, I think he’s speaking Dutch? He’s probably yelling because I became lost in my own thoughts and not his. I better tune him back in…

(“Ad line of French or Dutch you need to add later and then have him switch back to English”)

“Your not even listening to me, and don’t blame the Absinthe. Although, Toulouse Lautrec use to have absinthe induced hallucinations of spiders attacking him; it can amplify your fears. Hopefully, you do not have arachnophobia.”

Why is he telling me this? Don’t think of spiders; you’re not even that scared of spiders. Don’t think about it. Oh my god, would that be horrifying to be attacked by spiders crawling and sinking their fangs into my body. God damn it, that’s all I can think about close your eyes and… wait a minute…I just felt something lightly brush against my arm. Was it my dress coat, or was it? Don’t open your eyes. Maybe just a peak… Its worst than I thought. I’m covered in Tarantulas. I felt their spiny hairs rub against my arm and neck. They’re the size of my fucking hands…. Just close your eyes. Think calming thoughts like when you were under the oak tree feeling the soothing air cool your skin. Calm your mind like when you   meditate………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….., I’ve been meditating to long, and blocked Van Gogh out again. Tune him back in, maybe he hasn’t noticed. I hear him; now focus only on his words.

“That’s why I realized revenge, hatred, is wrong. To become at peace with one’s self you have to be at peace with everyone and everything. Even if they have harmed you, you have to for give. Revenge is a resentful venom; more lethal than any toxin we can drink,” Van Gogh clarifies.

I do have positive memories of Megan, but it’s hard to over power the negative times that scourge my mind. Damn it, I’m lost in my thoughts again better listen to him, just listen. Van Gogh explains,  

“Now tranquility has taken over me. I want to show you something I recently painted.”

“Before you do, please explain that one hanging on the wall, the one with the reaper field,” I pleaded?

“I’m glad you mentioned that. It relates to the next painting I’m about to show you.”

Whoa, I’ve never seen that portrait either.”

“Nobody has seen any of these besides Paul. He went to the brothel and tavern to hang out with the conformist sheep that herd into those places. How can an artist like him, put up with such utter madness in those places?”

“Yeah, that’s frustrating, but I want to know what that portrait over there means to you. It looks different.”

“Different because of my appearance, or different because it was painted by someone else?”

“Who?”

“It was painted by Toulouse Lautrec.”

I noticed another portrait, and asked about it before he could finish explaining the one done by Lautrec. God damn ADD.

“Oh, that one was painted by Gauguin. I told Paul, ‘That’s me all right, but it’s me gone mad’.”

“And what about the reaper painting?”

“That is called ‘Wheat Field with a Reaper.’ ‘I see in the reaper the image of death, in a sense, that humanity might be the wheat that he is reaping. But there is nothing sad in this death. He goes his way in the board day light with the sun flooding everything with the light of pure gold; an image of death that which the great book of nature speaks of. It is done in almost all yellow besides the violet mountains in the background.’ Now I think you are ready for me to show you this painting.”

Oh my God, its Starry night, I think to myself excitedly, and then Van Gogh specifies.

“At night, I often look at the stars because it makes me dream. ‘It occurred to me. Just as we take a train to Terrace Gon or Terue, we take death to reach a star.’”

Hearing Van Gogh describe his work is incredible, I am privileged and honored to hear his thinking process but I am annoyed by how drunk I am. It’s too hard to focus, not to mention my ADD is multiplied a thousand times when I drink. I’m annoyed at myself for taking so long to understand his comparison of the two drawings, “Sorrow” and the Charcoal drawing of the dying tree. It was so obvious, but because of being ultra-intoxicated, I could not comprehend at a normal speed. At least it helped me realize that the insecure oak tree that shaded the sunflowers is more like Megan internally, and the sunflowers represent her externally. OH no, my mind is off in a different place and time. I better tune him back in before he gets pissed off.

“Don’t you agree?”

“Agree with ….What the fuck!

He’s wielding a knife in front of my face. I’ve got to get out of here. His eyes are sinister, and are swelling with sheer lunacy… The front door just slammed open, and Paul Gauguin bursts in with a shocked face expression.

“Why are you holding a knife in front of that man’s face? Have you gone completely mad?”

 Gauguin is almost as shocked as me. I better listen as Van Gogh tries to explain himself while pointing a knife at my face.

“No, I’m not mad. I am ready. We all should be ready to ‘take death to a star’.”

“You are uttering insane gibberish. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gauguin screams with clear sanity.

“We need to leave behind a peace of us as a relic to be remembered by, before we leave. Before we leave our body, a part of it must leave us. These bodies hold our souls captive, and we must punish it for doing such a cruel deed. It won’t hurt, look; I’ve already cut off part of my ear.”

As those words were exchanged, I jumped out of my chair and pushed aside Van Gogh, while he was stunned by Gauguin, who had already fled the scene, and I am doing the same. I shot through the doorway that was already open from Gauguin leaving behind all this madness. My adrenaline flowed through my body with the velocity of light, while I ran down the street that was horizontal to the vertical opening of the alley way. I turned as I ran, to see a glimpse of Van Gogh standing in the alley calling to Gauguin who was about ten feet from Van Gogh, and that moon gleaming knife. I could hear ferocious shouting that Van Gogh delivered malevolently and Gauguin yells back.

“I can take no more; you have become a raving lunatic!”

“I want to be out of my body. Why do you not understand? I want to catch death like a train and take it …...”

Van Gogh’s words became faint even though he was yelling; I couldn’t hear him as clear because I was heading towards the sunflower field. After leaving the partially lit streets, I had to enter dreaded darkness and my eyes are not adjusted yet. My heart is racing faster than my legs could run. I’m feeling my adrenaline more than the absinthe in my blood stream right now. As my eyes become more adjusted to the dark, I realize I have to piss badly. I am now entering the sunflower field, and without hesitation, I take a relishing piss. For a second, I thought the running was going to cause me to piss all over myself. No more thoughts invade my mind, all I can think of is the trickling sound of water spattering the ground beneath my…When abruptly, a thought occurred to me; shit, how will I return without touching the reaper painting. I have to go back. All this madness has caused me to almost for get how to return home. After I zip up my pance, I sprint back towards Van Gogh’s yellow house.

Hopefully he won’t notice me. I’m starting to see the street that leads towards the small yellow threatening house. Exhaustion is beginning to sink in, and my adrenaline is wearing off. I have to keep running and stop thinking about how tired I am. A few more minutes and I should be back in town. I’m back on the street leading to the tiny yellow house. So far so good, he doesn’t seem to notice…wait a second does he see me?  I can see him standing there, in the alley way lit by the moon. The blade glows like a flash light as it reflects the full moon’s unsettling ambiance.

While running, I kept glancing at this bizarre scene. When I ran past at a safe undetectable distance concealed in the night, I stopped to notice Van Gogh offering his relic to a prostitute. Not Sena, the woman in his charcoal drawing, but a different prostitute. This is just the distraction I needed. Now, I just have to run by Van Gogh with- out him noticing. So far so good, he doesn’t seem to notice me sprinting by him. Almost there, I can see his yellow home. I am approaching the open doorway, but running too fast through it. I can’t slow down. Still clumsy with the affects of alcohol, I can’t slow ….OOwwcchhh. Oh shit! I smashed into the table, and bashed the fuck out of my knee. It hurts to get up, but I have to find the strength before that maniac returns.

Where the hell is that painting? It’s no where to be found. It was hanging from the wall. Where the fuck is it? God damn it, there’s no time to waste. In a fit of alcohol induced madness, Van Gogh must have wrecked the place before he tracked down a prostitute in the alley. God damn it, where is it? I scurry through the clutter of art work on the floor, and cannot find the reaper painting. Maybe it is under the over turned kitchen table. Where is that damn thing? I need to touch it to open a portal. Here it is, in the bottom of the pile of art. I’m touching it, but nothings happening. Come on, God damn it, come on. All right just calm down. Meditate a bit, breath in and out like grandma showed you. Close your eyes and clear your mind of everything except the question. Where does the portal hide? Where is it hidden?

“Hold it right there, you thief.”

My eyes open to see Gauguin and a police officer. Just concentrate and find the portal.

“If you are armed, I suggest that you drop any weapon that you might be concealing.”

I ignored them, and scan the room intensely analyzing every place that the portal might appear. Over there, the circular shadow behind the officer and Gauguin.

“aaAAAAAAhhhh!”

Where is that scream coming from; the shriek sounds like it was made by a woman. It must be that prostitute. Van Gogh must have finally showed the prostitute his relic, at least the commotion has captured the attention of Gauguin and the officer, now’s my chance to run for the portal and dive into it. I ran with all my might, and leaped horizontally like a javelin right through the dark portal directly in front of the yellow house’s door. As soon as I entered the portal it vanishes along with me.      

It worked. It, AAAhhhhhhh, feels like I’m being torn apart one molecule at an agonizing time. It feels strangely painful but at the same time exhilarating, like the highest amount of adrenaline that has ever coursed through my body. I’m starting to vibrate at a rate that is too uncanny to comprehend by modern physics. It feels like light….. like…..Now I’m burning with flowing energy and vibrating violently. I’m becoming light….can’t think as much. Can’t think……everything going Dark…………………….Absolutely dark.

But I feel so illuminated, how can It be dark and…bright…and?..???????..... …??   ????????………………….. .………………………………??????…………………………???……………………!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!………

………………………         I feel like I’m seeing and I am a ………………………………………………………………………………………………………????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!                       ………………!!...!!!!.  

%@%#%$#%@%@^%$@^%$@^%$@^%$@^%@^%$@^%$@^%@^%@^%$@^%$@^%$@^%@^%@^%$@^%$@^%$#@^%$#^%$%R(^*&%()*&(*(^*$^*#%#$%#$#@$%#E&^T)*&%^$@%$E(^&T*^&$%*^&%

    &$#$#^%$#%R*&^Y*(U&*(&%&^%)_++_*()^&^$^%$#$#!#~!@#!$#^%^&%$^%$!@@!#@W$%&^^)*_()*+_)_)(+_()*_)(_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_(+)_()*&(*&(8646+526+96+92169+41+9+9     0101010101010164684864684864686484684684 6546840846.8400101010101010101010001010101010010101018468941651651757657865876343423%$#%$#%$#%$#%```````8008089890766689)*()*()*()*()*()*()*()()907********88****%*%*%*%5*%*%*%858585858585*%*%*~~~

69+45+94+94+94+

945+……………………………     part                                  ………..

………………………..

                                5511111///////////////////////////////////?????????????????    ………. Of a

00101010107904654410.5846.858468.00.0.00.0.0.0..0.00..000000111199199187%%*(&^%^(&%(&^%&^%&^%(*&^%(*&^*&^)*(7 ………………………..????????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P90p0p000…………………….%&^*&((*&^*(&^(_)(_90-889689756452$#@^$%&^%*&&()(_))^$%#$#!#@*******&(*^*(&%$$%#$#@$#%!$#!$#@!$#@$%%$$*&^%%*(&^0101010210999911190910910909....0...354846464...40409406984040%%%%%%.05306351320503506350.......................................????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!                               Some kind………………………………………………….7`2548716358471654346181+681683441168354146+864+8748894+96849+58849+5849+598849+49847+4998497+94847+994847+49987479+49874010015418189189179171000110010110..0990909909009…0..0.40540.3540340.3540.5340.540.540.534.450+++++++++++++++++of+====++++=====010101111119.999999+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++XXXXXXX0101XX…..of…..XXXXXXX…..Code…+++++####..??###?#?#?#?#?#?##?#?###????XXXXX9191919191684846541686516( XXXX909….10101011019999)%%%@@@@XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX33333333333############################0111111111111111111111111111111.9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999.01X000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000021212121.01111111119999999x5%......along with neo-matter..19919191  321635515135314#@%@#%$%!$%!%!$%!$%!$#%!$%!$%!$% 19%&&&&along …..0101010101999999095!%!#$#$!@%$^@$#^$%^&$%&^&with010101010110 1010110000000000000101000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001110000111100001100000000000000010000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000101photons010101010101010101010101010  ………………………….1111111111111111111111                     1           1@        !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!/???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????andotherparticlesnotyetknown!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?1/1///////////////////1/1/1/1/11/1////////////////1/1/!???????????????????1/1!!!!????!?!?!? ……………………………016584168495+95+95+95+9444010000000000000000000000000000000000000000 while weak and…………………………………………strong………………………forces………………………….&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&;plus                  a

1818+4865161510101011111111111111111.00000000000000000000000000000999999999999999999999999000000000000000000000000000000000000000000111111111111111111111111111111………!!!!!!!!!!??????????????????????????????????????????????

#$%#$%#^$%@$#^&^*&()()_+_+_)+*^%%$4584561658165

1

35

132156666666666666666666516513235

6

5

15

+++++============================================================================================ NEO-Force that can contain ………and……????01010101release of           a                                               distant…546468468.0101010101010101*******+++++++++++=========But …?????????………####……….yet connected in an inter-dimensional bond of1999999999999999999999999999999999999999999900000000000000000000000000019999999999999999.19999.999999999999999000000000000000000000000000019999.9900000000000000000000000000199990000000000000000000010110010101101999999991999999999999neo-matter and my matter19999 1999999999999999999999999999991999999999999999999999999999999999 …………………………………………..????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????.

+

All of my matter seems to have turn into photons streaking towards the present; although, considering how I just left a present situation in a Van Gogh past, my former present will now seem like the future. What am I thinking about my thought process seems to be thrown off a bit by drifting…………………………   ...........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Whoa, abruptly all = Darkness again…………………… …………………………… again……………………………………………..……  Darkness……………………………………..Or, I mean dark matter particles. Or is it?????? ………………..followed by ultra-light ………………………..followed by Absolute Darkness, followed by more illumination. I wonder if the portal is made of dark matter and…which can contain anti-matter ………………………and some how my own matter or maybe I became a temporary bundle of neo-matter instead of anti-matter this time because anti-matter only travels backwards where as the neo-matter, when colliding with my own matter must move forward.…………………………………………………………………………………. …………………………………………………………………………………………………...…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….Chapter 5: Reminiscent Sorrow ………….……..............      

Gradually, my vision starts to perceive my blurry hand spread out on a non-focused painting. Also, my hearing is distorted, yet, I can hear some kind of racket as if someone is yelling underwater. I look in the direction of the ruckus and see an unclear figure about fifteen feet away. As my mind becomes more coherent, my senses still can not quite register their surroundings. While my memory looks into the past, I remember my present situation. I am in the exact moment I left with a security guard shouting at me. Before, when I drifted to Van Gogh’s era (1889), I used precision focus to arrive under the oak tree in a landscape that burned yellow, this time I did not end up in a place that I wanted. Maybe I was too intoxicated, and stressed out when I applied my psychomic touch, which caused me to appear where I left.

If only I would have been able to concentrate, but the police officer that Gauguin retrieved, threatened my arrest, and this made it difficult to focus; plus, my intoxication threw me off, however; now I know longer feel the effects of alcohol. I wish I could have materialized by the Hercules statue in front of the Museum that is mounted by a hill that over looks Century Park. Since I was unable to properly visualize my next serene location during my last chaotic moments in the past, I ended up in another unwanted hysteria. Finally, clarity reaches my senses; I quickly remove my hand from the reaper painting that is now in focus, and I look towards a security guard yelling at a closer distance. My mind can’t handle this right now, but I have to try and compose myself. At least the feeling of intoxication has left me, though I still feel the potent effects from drifting.

 “Sir, you can’t touch that painting, what God Damn part of that do you not understand?! If you do it again, I will be forced to call the police.”

“Sorry, I just became overwhelmed with awe. I couldn’t help myself. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“There won’t be a next time! I need you to leave this instant.”

“I will, just give me a couple of minutes and…”

The security guard reaches for his radio, desperately calling for back up through an obstruction of harsh static.

“I have a situation in the Van Gogh Gallery room, request back up, over.”

“Copy that. We’ll be right there.”

“Roger that, Ten Four.”

While Disoriented, I walk away from the sentinel trying to contemplate my next move. I escaped the mayhem from the past, only to confront a new dilemma in the present. The sun of a bitch security guard won’t stop staring, watching me like a bird of prey. I can’t deal with this right now. To relieve stress, my hand combs through my hair, and messages my head; although this does not alleviate much of my problem. Maybe I should have visited Diana Arbus instead of Van Gogh. She would not have threatened me with a knife. The exhibit is close by maybe I should…..Five more sentries enter the Van Gogh gallery room to interrupt my thoughts. The security guard that called for back up demands,

“Sir, if you do not leave, we will escort you out.”

With all eyes on me I say,

“I’m sorry, I got carried away. I’ll leave now; nobody has to escort me.”

I walk out of the exhibit room with an accumulation of visitors and security guard eyes gazing as if I were on display. While exiting the Van Gogh gallery, I still feel uneasy stares, which cause me to look back to see that the museum sentries are walking towards me to make sure I leave. I open the exit doors and walk down the concrete steps of the museum; my head turns to see that the sentries did not follow me outside of the museum. Good, they were giving me anxiety. While walking down the massive concrete steps, I look across the street to notice the colossal   white marble Hydra and Hercules sculpture that are portrayed in battle horizontally placed on a white marble block that is parallel to the museum building.

At the zenith of the Hydra, one of the nine serpent heads, in the middle, extends-to-twenty-five-feet, were as Hercules’s head reaches only twelve-foot, and the tip of his sword, which is held by both of his hands, lengthens to twenty-one-feet. Hercules’s sword is held at a ninety-degree angle with his elbows and knees bent.

Hercules’s is depicted by wearing sandals, with his left foot firmly planted and placed in front of his right foot, which has his heel off the ground as Hercules’s sandal cushioned toes are sculpted to look as though his toes are firmly pressing down on the marble rectangular mount to insinuate motion, and to suggest that most of the weight has been shifted to his left foot. The confrontation is mounted on a white marble block that rises five-feet off the ground.  

The marble square mount is fifteen-foot in length and five-feet in width. Below each side of the marble rectangular platform, a park bench is placed; this will be an ideal location to rest. I sit on the side with my back towards the museum and sculpture, which gives me a view looking down a verdant hill that leads to a side walk that raps around the artificial lake, and branches throughout most of Century Park.

While trying to compose my thoughts, I can not help but dwell on my near escape from, what could have been death. When absinthe: whisky, wine, and a psychotic genius is wielding a knife at my face, the sensation of horrifying fear for life blazes my mind. Even though I am in the present, my mind was still observing the past. The terrifying waving knife is all I see; yet, the tranquil landscape of Century park awaits my eyes when their ready to perceive. As for now, I have to triumph over my anxiety that has become a gloomy cloud on this gorgeous sunny day; causing me to observe Van Gogh’s tragic life.

After severing part of his ear on December 23, 1889, seven months and eight days later, Van Gogh attempted suicide by shooting himself in the chest on July 27, 1890, but failed just as he thought he had failed as a son, an evangelist, and as an artist, since he only sold one painting. His brother came to visit him in the hospital and the doctors told him, “the bullet was lodged just below his heart; there was nothing they could do.” Theo held Vincent in his arms and Vincent told him, “‘This is just as it was at home, take me home.’” The wound caused him to die two days later on an early morning at 1:30 a.m.

Theo soon followed his brother to the grave six months later because they had to be together. Perhaps, the misery of losing two brothers named Vincent was enough turmoil to distress Theo’s health that was already affected allegedly by syphilis, and after Vincent’s death; Theo’s health swiftly declined, ultimately sending him to a premature grave next to his brilliant brother, so they could be together in death. Unfortunately, in life, they barely were able to visit; due to their careers, one as an underappreciated artist, and the other as an art dealer.  

Contemplating Van Gough’s demise and what could have been my own, reminded me of when I confronted mortality for the first time. It was when my Grandmother, Elena Marie Navarro, the guidance and inspiration in most of my life, had been taken from mine. At first, I lost all direction, but then I found my way. Observing her old state of being caused me to realize this was no longer her. The morticians tried to make her as presentable as possible; yet, her body just became something that was no longer grandma. As soon as Grandma’s spirit left, so did her meaning; this body was just an old captivity that was gradually being consumed by bacteria. Though, I still felt some of her essence throughout the room, and so did others at my grandma’s wake.

While staring at the depressing flesh that was now absent of a spirit, my cousin Lindsey walked up to me and whispered,

“The last time I saw her in the hospital, she looked courageous and peaceful like Gandhi.”

I agreed with her, and then, together we embraced and cried.

Most people at my Grandma’s wake seemed happy, talking about all the positive aspects of her life. I was furious because my grandma’s wish had always been cremation. My Grandma felt that after the spirit left the body was meaningless. Alcoholism took its toll on her body, along with devouring bacteria and dehydration that usually occurs with death, and not only that, it was her only request; although, my uncle Max decided that people would want to see her one last time as a body rather than an urn. Perhaps he was right about what other people wished, but it does not matter what the family, friends, or anyone else thought; this was my Grandma’s only request.

My uncle Max was in charge of all the financial aspects of the wake and funeral arrangements; although, my grandma had asked the family what they felt about her request. Most agreed that it was odd for a Christian to be cremated, and Uncle Max and dad both explained how there are many different examples in scripture of burial, but most significantly would be David: John the Baptist, Moses, and of course, Christ. Conversely, after the wake, my Uncle Max had my grandma’s decaying captivity cremated; I guess this somewhat redeems him; yet, it is my grandmas body not his, and her last request should have prevailed over all others.

Many people had difficulty accepting my grandma’s beliefs; yes,

she was Christian; yet, she had unconventional views. She also cherished other cultures. Another religion that was also close to her heart was Hinduism, and she believed in the possibility of reincarnation, which could redirect her spirit into another temporary captivity. Gandhi was as much of a spiritual guidance as Christ was to her. That is why my grandma chose to make a sculpture of Gandhi, which was the last piece of clay she ever molded, and fired up in the oven. When the statue was suspiciously knocked over accidentally by one of her church friends, she told me later on, “Don’t worry Warren, it will always exist in our minds; no one can take that from us.” Just like nothing can take a part of her from me because, sometimes, I still sense her essence.          

Realizing my grandma’s occasional essence, I fine a strength that is igniting from within. This newly found might is like….I hold on to that thought as I turn my body away from the view of the human made lake, while sitting on the bench and I look up at Hercules. I analyze the profile view of Hercules that is in a fighting stance holding a lengthy sword over his head with both hands ready for combat; I look towards the other side of the spectacular sculpture. On the opposite end of the fifth-teen-foot-long marble mount (that is five-foot in width), the nine-headed hydra emerges twenty-five-foot with its girthy tail stretched out and curled at the end; while eight of its heads are in striking poses, in contrast to the tallest, middle head, which appears to be in control; as if orchestrating the other heads, while gazing down at Hercules trying to calculate his next move.

According to Greek mythology, every head that Hercules decapitated, two more grew in its place. The multiple regeneration of the Hydra’s heads   symbolizes the lust for mortal pleasure; the Greeks believed that it was a desire that could not be killed. However, Hercules found away to stop the hydra’s heads from growing. After the heads were severed, he singed the wounded areas with a torch to cease the growth of any new serpent heads. I wish this statue depicted Hercules holding a torch in one had and a sword in the other. Hercules had to complete twelve labors to redeem him self for killing his family, while under a trance of rage cast by his stepmother, and Queen of the gods, Hera. The battle   with the Hydra was the second labor.

Interestingly, the eleventh labor was a task that demanded Hercules to steal golden apples from a remote garden that was guarded by a dragon with one hundred serpent heads; this familiar task resembles the story of Adam and Eve. Sometimes, religions barrow from other religions. Some appallingly sinister aspects about Eve taking and eating from the Tree of Knowledge (Genesis 3:6, New international Version) is that the myth conveys how being curious, and wanting to learn is wrong; this segment from the Book of Genesis is laced with fearful propaganda in hope to control how people think by implanting a sexist view of women as being temptresses. According to the scripture, god punished Eve (and all women) and, “To the woman he said, ‘I will greatly increase your pain in childbearing; your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you” (Genesis 3:16, New International Version).

The sculpture of Hercules’s mythological encounter is titled “A Leviathan verse a Demigod” and was sculpted in white marble by Sydney Curry, a local artist who was commissioned to sculpt the combat in 1961. The title and artist is inscribed on the side of the rectangular slab facing the museum. When I was younger I could have stared at this sculpture for hours, but my teacher would not allow it. At the time, I was on a fourth-grade field trip. My class had the attention span of toddlers and so did my teacher. Just like many field trips, I could not keep up with the class because I wanted to savor moments by trying to absorb every facet with my eyes.

The Hercules and Hydra sculpture has eased my anxiety caused by the museum sentries and Van Gogh. Still slightly disoriented from drifting, yet, I do not feel drunk. Maybe it is because the past has left my body, but unfortunately not my memory. I do not even feel hung over. Why has my intoxication subsided? A hint of exhilaration keeps me from reliving the dark moments of my experience with Van Gough. After all, I did meet a master; it’s just that someone with such an insanely compulsive nature to act irrationally without regret disturbs me.

The act of Van Gogh severing part of his ear has always eclipsed what he has accomplished. Most people do not realize that Van Gogh’s legacy consisted of 1,800 works; though, the morbid act of him cutting part of his ear, and the painting of “Starry Night” is all that is retained by the minds of many. Does an artist have to die or become insane to be remembered? Or should the simple act of doing what you love over power any acceptance. Regardless of the disturbing aspects of my journey, I still met a genius.

Also, my drift allowed Van Gough to take the time to explain many of his works including his charcoal illustration titled “Sorrow” which represented how Van Gough felt that the prostitute Sena shared a mutual sorrow for each other. To his misfortune, his lover was infested with syphilis and gonerea. Van Gogh explained how “Sorrow” resembled the charcoal drawing of the dying tree, and that’s when I started to think of Megan. She was………....

Just then, below the Hercules sculpture a pterosaur crashed into the grass, only it is not a primordial flying reptile, it is a kite made to look like a pterosaur that landed on this grassy hill where the Hercules statue was mounted on top of. The wide grassy hill leads down to an immense flat grass land covered with children flying kites and couples enjoying picnics. Further down the hill, my eyes catch the human made lake. The lake was filled with row boats and couples on dates. When I was sixteen, I went on my first date here in a row boat just like them.

Century Park is one of my favorite places in the United States. Century Park (acreage: 1,410) is the largest urban park in America. With St. Louis, Forest Park (acreage: 1,293) coming in at number two, and Santiago, Balboa Park (acreage: 1,200) ranking in at number three. Some Americans are proud of U.S. fighter jets: of soldiers, of presidents, of their gun collection, of their patriotism; I am proud to live next to a city that featured such a remarkable park. Century Park embodied everything I loved. It had the zoo, even though I had not been there in a couple of years, regardless of past experiences, I will return again. It is one of the only places where I can see such astonishing animals. Who knows, maybe a child could visit the zoo and his or her experience could inspire that child to become a veterinarian: zoologist, a primatologist, a marine biologist, ecologist, or conservationist.

Century Park had it all, besides the zoo it had the art museum, the human made lake, and the museum of natural histor.……A couple is approaching the Hercules and Hydra sculpture. The boyfriend starts to speak to his girlfriend.

“Honey, I’m so glad you took me here. I don’t know much about art, but I’m glad I came.”

“You always say that, but you do. You know a lot about photography and movies,” his girlfriend replies.

“Yeah, but I just feel stupid when it comes to painting and drawing.”

“You know more than you realize; I’ve herd you talk to your dad about painting,” his girlfriend says with encouragement.

“Compared to him, I no nothing.”

“I hate when you let him make you feel stupid. You’re not! You know more than me about H. R. What’s his name again?”

“H. R. Giger,” her boyfriend fires back with confidence.

“See, you know something I don’t.”

“Only because he did the effects for the movie Alien,” the boyfriend responds.

“But he is a painter,” she replies.

“And sculptor,” her boy friends adds.

“See, you know something,” the girlfriend kindly expresses.

“Your right, and I also took art appreciation class,” her boyfriend proudly exclaims.

“So why act like you don’t know?”

“I don’t know I--I can’t talk about it the way he can. And I can’t paint at all. All I can do is take pictures.”

“And your good at that,” his girlfriend encouragingly states.

“He saw my newest pic of the swan I showed you, and he said it had terrible composition.”

“Your doing it again, he’s going to say that about everything you do. He’s biased and pissed off because he never made it as a painter,” the girlfriend frustratingly remarked.

“He knows way more about composition than me, haven’t you seen his paintings?”

“I’m a painter too, and I don’t care for his paintings. I love the composition in your tree picture, and how you put it in a wood border frame. But what I really love is how you chose to tint it, what’s that called again,” his girlfriend questions.

“Sepia toned.”

“Yeah, I love that,” the girlfriend responds!

“He hates that one because I used Photo Shop instead of printing in a darkroom. He says the one aspect that he respects about photography, I replaced with a computer. All I did was push a bunch of buttons instead of going through many time consuming and skillful steps that he says, “I lack patience for,” the boyfriend agitatedly expresses while looking down.  

“I hate when you let him destroy your self-esteem. He can be a real prick,” the girlfriend says with intensity.

“I hate how you always say bad things about him. God Damn it, he’s my   father!”

The couple is standing on the side of the Hercules statue where he’s lifting his sword. If they don’t stop arguing, they just might anger this Greek demi-god, not to mention, give me a melodramatic anxiety attack….oh no…his girlfriend is starting to cry. She is sitting on the bench directly underneath Hercules’s sword and her boyfriend sits down to comfort her. I think Hercules might decapitate their heads if they continue to bicker; maybe his grip will release the sword causing it to fall tip first, from twenty-one feet.

“I’m sorry I lost it. My dads not a prick, he just has a lot of issues,” her boyfriend expresses gently.

“But he treats you like shit.”

“Your right, he can be a prick sometimes. I’m sorry honey; I would never let him say these kinds of things to you.”

“Then why do you let him say them to you. I-I-III…… just wish you could stand up to him sometimes.”

“I don’t care what he thinks about my photography any more. When he says negative things it doesn’t bother me as much…Sometimes it does….I’m just saying I care about you, and if he ever said anything bad about you, I would snap.”

“Sorry I called him a prick,” she apologetically states.

“That’s okay, I’m really sorry I yelled at you. Thinks for bringing me here, I enjoyed the museum, but I’m going to take a break from photography for a while. It depresses me,” her boyfriend remarks.

“But I think your good, and if you keep it up, you could be famous, but your dad wants to keep you in his shadow.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t care. I will always support your painting,” he says caringly.

“Good, because besides you, its one of the only things that makes me happy,” she explains.

“I know but its one of the only things that makes me sad,” he comments.

“My paintings!?”

“No, doing photography,” he tries to clarify.

“Probably because your dad drinks and paints, and if he doesn’t get it right he yells at his family. You probably associate this with all art, especially photography,” she expresses with slight annoyance.

“Yeah, but it’s not just him. Van Gogh cut his ear off,” he incorrectly utters.

I can’t stand this shit; he severed part of it off! He’s fabricating the art world.  

“And Pollock was a heavy drinker, and died drunk driving. My dad idolized him. Even Ansel Adams neglected his wife and family, and supposedly, had a fling with his young darkroom assistant. Hemingway and Diana Arbus both killed themselves. My dad’s painting is slowing killing my mom you know. She wants to divorce him, but how can she when she feels secure from being with his insecurities. My dad feeds off her weakness.”

They start to embrace.

“Sorry, I’m being so depressing, but that’s what art does to me. I will always encourage your work, and it makes me happy when you do it. But I’m not sure if I will photograph again.”

“Don’t say that,” she expresses with concern.

“I’ll probably do it again just like my dad saying he’s going to stop drinking, but really he’s going to continue, and I bet I’ll photograph again.”

“How about right now, hold up your camera and take a picture of us in front of this statue,” she exclaims with excitement.

They kiss and he photographs them, some one fucking shot me.

“Now, when you get depressed about art, you can look at this picture and see the happiness taking pictures can create,” she joyfully explains.

It sounds like she’s plagiarizing the Hallmark channel. They kiss again and please shot me again.

“I have a frame that would be perfect for this. I’ll hang it up over the couch.”

“You won’t have to live in that small apartment for long because more than becoming a famous photographer, I want to buy us a new home to raise a family in.”

They kiss again. Yep, Hercules should drop his sword on them or on me. Fuck me this is lame. I’m out of here. I’m off to visit Diane Arbus; her photographs are innovative. They inspired Stanley Kubrick’s movie the shinning in the scene where the bloody phantom twin girls are blocking the hall way from Danny’s big wheel joy ride. If it wasn’t for Arbus’s black and white eerie image of the twin girls, Kubrick would not have created as horrifying of a scene that is engraved in cinematic history.

I’ll just sneak around the museum to the back entrance. Not as many security guards, I hope. I’m walking towards the art museum, so I can pay Arbus a little visit. I haven’t felt this excited since my first visit to the zoo. I only have an hour left, better run to save time. I should be there in about five minutes. Now I feel my heart pounding with enthusiasm, just like when I first saw the Charles Night Exhibit at the art museum. Night specialized in painting prehistoric scenes. I was twelve years old, and it seems as though it just happened. Almost to the back entrance, oh wow…I forgot all about this, the Natural history museum is even closer to the art museum than I recalled. I can see part of the building from here. I can’t remember when it closes. For the longest time, art has consumed me, while my passion for paleontology has been forgotten.

Ancient animals have been an obsession since I was three. My dad gave me my first book. It was an encyclopedia on dinosaurs. The cover was a colorful illustration of Tyrannosaurus Rex, which stood for tyrant lizard king, and T-Rex was fighting a triceratops on the cover of my first encyclopedia. Now, the last part of T-Rex’s name lizard king, holds less meaning in paleontology; since dinosaur theropods (bipedal carnivores) such as T-Rex and Velociraptors are considered ancestors to birds.

Another misconception of the Tyrant Bird king was that in earlier years, it was conveyed by walking completely vertical instead of balancing its self horizontally by its tail. I remember telling my grandma and dad this, but they could not forget the epic imagery of the original King Kong struggling with the vertical T-Rex. It was etched into the minds of many. Since theropod dinosaurs are closely related to birds, not reptiles, a hawk is more of a Tyrannosaurus Rex than a crocodile. In the name velociraptor, raptor means birds of prey.

As much as I admire Diane Arbus, Van Gogh, Kubrick, and Einstein, I now understand that all of my favorite thinkers had negative traits that would make it difficult to have conversations with. Damn it, here I was, judging that couple for trying to be happy. Something I have been striving to achieve my whole life. I was just mad because they found it and I didn’t.

Van Gogh could have injured or killed me, and Arbus probably would have depressed me because she was a manic depressant (bipolar) and, eventually, she slit her writs. Kubrick was just as reclusive as one of the little venomous brown violins, and probably would not want to be bothered. Einstein neglected his children and wife, while he had affairs with women. He put his theories of science first and his family last.

In ways, I understand, but in other ways I do not. Einstein’s theories help shape the way we perceive the universe, although; if children are not raised properly, then a carefully constructed theory is worthless; if the future of humans suffer from a negative up bringing, who will be capable of fulfilling further achievements? Children, like a theory, need careful nurturing in order to develop and without that, they will have a tough time being accepted, just like an un-nurtured theory. My list of illustrious thinkers has been replaced by an excitement and curiosity that had temporarily left my mind, but not my heart. The infatuation with ancient animals will never leave me; it is engraved in my essence.  

That’s right, something else has also returned to my heart, and I did it just before visiting Van Gough. I had not photographed for years, until that moment in the art museum when I photographed that girl in front of the peacock feathers. Shit! Where is my cell phone, please tell me I did not leave it with Van Gogh? Who knows what kind of ripple effect that would have on the present. Good, it is buried deep in my dress coat’s inside pocket.

I flip out the phone and select the only image stored. I think this portrait makes up for the portrait of Monika that I accidentally ruined by cutting off part of the negative at the end of the roll before processing it. Why is this new portrait so familiar? For fucks sake, I just remembered the photograph that won my college’s photo contest. The digital print of the girl looking into the camera with the peacock feathers in the background.

Subconsciously, I have become a hack, completely stealing the student’s composition and pretty much the scenery. I even shot it digitally just like her. I am going to erase this because it is an un-appropriated image which means copied from something other than my own imagination. I guess I was so bitter in college that I didn’t even notice that there was a unique quality about this image that subconsciously I liked. It doesn’t matter if I had won grants and received prestige; the idea behind the photograph is the true stature. What a hypocrite I’ve become. At least I realized my mistake, before I gloated and showed other people my un-appropriated image.  

     Chapter 6: Where To?

There’s not much time now, better sprint towards the Fuller Museum of Natural history. While running, I exhale my frustrations and inhale a fresh anticipation that will be a different epoch for me to explore. I’m finally at the entrance of the Fuller Museum. My heart beat quickens and my eyes try to absorb all that it sees. Above the entrance a sign reads, “Welcome Time Travelers.” I notice there is no line because the museum is only open for forty more minuets. The teller lets me in for free, she explains,

“I’m not going to charge you fifteen dollars when there’s only forty minutes left.”  

“Thank you so much!!!”

Your eyes are as big as my grandson’s eyes when he watches “Jurassic Zoo,” the teller explains as my mind reacts swiftly to her comment.

Did you know that T-Rex actually lived in the Cretaceous period, but they changed the novels title from “Cretaceous Captivity” to “Jurassic Zoo” because they thought it was easier to pronounce and remember,” I asked?

“No, I didn’t,” she responded. “Did you know that we have a replica of Sue, the world’s most famous T-Rex fossil?”

“No. I thought the Field Museum in Chicago was only allowed to have that,” I questioned?

“Thanks to Burrito Chef for donating a substantial amount, we were able to get one of the replicas, but it ends tomorrow.”

“Shit, I don’t have much time. Sorry for cursing.”

“No, you only have thirty-eight minutes; you better hurry sweety.”

And I did, no more hesitation, I ran over to where I saw a huge banner hanging low from the high ceiling which states, here stands Sue, the most complete T-Rex fossil ever discovered. I remember reading the book “Tyrannosaurus Sue” and in that book, it stated that she was forty-two-foot-long, thirteen-foot high at the hips, a remarkable specimen that is 90 percent complete. Looking below the banner, I finally see Sue and she is incredible. Awestruck, I accidentally walked in front of a family trying to photograph their kids with Sue. My moment of astonishment causes me to lose all photographic etiquette; the family did not get mad. Instead, they were laughing and said,

“We accidentally took a picture of a new family member. Are you up for adoption?”

“I respond, sorry, I didn’t mean to get in the way.”

“That’s okay, it happens.”

 “To make up for it, I can photograph the whole family in front of Sue.”

The mother and father loved this idea they explain,

“That’s what we wanted to do in the first place, but didn’t know who to ask.”

“I don’t mind at all, I feel bad for ruining your photo.”

The father hands me his camera, instantly, I see many images of the family project in my mind. I do not have time for a psychometry reading now; so, I   actually shut off my ability as the family arranges themselves in front of Sue. I composed them to the left of the foreground with the Tyrant Bird Queen in the background to the right of the frame, and I joyfully express,

“Say Sue.”

In unison, the family enthusiastically shouts,

“SSSuuuuee!!!”      

 After I handed them their camera, I approach the guard rail that surrounds the ruler of all land predators of the Cretaceous period (so far discovered). There is an incomplete fossil of a Spinosaurus that has been estimated to be longer than Sue, but not as robust as the tyrant bird queen. Although, the fossil is barely ten percent complete and there has only been one Spinosaurus fossil ever found. When more evidence comes forward, so will my view of who was the ultimate predator of the Cretaceous.

The scientific name for the most famous dinosaur species in the world is Tyrannosaurus Rex, just as Homo sapiens is the human species name, and the first part of the species name is called the genus name. The T-Rex fossil was found in South Dakota by field paleontologist Sue Hendrickson. Sue is 90% complete, making it the most inclusive T-Rex unearthing, yet discovered. According to uranium dating, Sue is approximately 67 million years old. After all these years, she has been exquisitely reassembled to captivate millions of people. At first glance, my eyes went right for her five-foot-long 600-pound skull and powerful jaws armed with horrifying rail road spike size teeth.

An interesting feature involving Tyrannosaurus Rex’s teeth is that T-Rex’s fossilized teeth had serrations, which trap meat and cause it to decay; which some paleontologists advocate that it formed a fatal bio-toxin. Perhaps the apex of land predators actually used biological artillery; this deadly feature may resemble the killing method of the Komodo Dragon’s toxic bite.

Komodo Dragons are the largest land lizards living today; even though Rex and Dragons may share this unique biting method, Sue still has more in common with birds (direct descendents). I wonder if Sue would have attacked her prey and then waited for the infected gnaw to take effect, and then hunt it down because this is the technique Komodo Dragons use. Sometimes, these land dragons will even wait days with malicious patience for their prey to feel the full effects from their bacteria laced salvia, which is when the methodical hunter brings down its victim.  However, after careful analyses from a cat scan on a Komodo dragon skull, some scientists have noticed a venom gland and have ruled out the bacteria laced gnaw. What if T-rex had a venom gland? Or what if the Komodo dragon’s prey just fell victim to a deep bloody wound that caused an infection. And oh wow, what if T-Rex had a venom glad?

When approaching Sue closer, my eyes went strait for the non-threatening tiny limbs. The tyrant had three-foot-long arms, the length of an average human,  the length of mine. This feature has always been quite perplexing and ridiculously disproportional. Then my eyes move to hers, as I start to gaze into Sue’s empty eye sockets; a timeless darkness replaces Sue’s eye’s, sixty-seven million years ago she became extinct, but now she is here suspended in the human world for all to observe. My eyes begin to fill with emotions, while I stare an icon in the face. My watery eyes began to warp the fossil, like a prism, causing Sue to bend as my dripping prisms gush down my face. I wipe my eyes to see her again in high resolution.

Sue’s tail stretches far behind her, in order to balance her massive forty- two-foot-long frame. The sheer size momentarily thieved my breath. When it is given back, she robbed me of a pulse for a couple of seconds because I imagined her roaming the Cretaceous fully fleshed and ready to slaughter. Should I go to the Cretaceous period to see how she lived and died? To see if she was a true hunter, or an opportunist that acted like modern day hyenas both scavenging and hunting. I walked to the other side of Sue, so I could get a better view of her tail. I imagined it swaying back and forth to fight for a balance in the chaotic Cretaceous.

Just then my peripheral vision noticed a pair of Deinonychus

(Die-no-nike-us), this is a type of raptor. Actually, Deinonychus was five- foot-tall, 150 to 200 pounds, and ten to thirteen-foot in length, as opposed to the movie “Jurassic Zoo,” which created a misconception that Velociraptors (vel-o-si-rap-tor) were about six-foot-tall. According to paleontology, Velociraptor ranged from 2.5 to 3 feet in height, and weighed anywhere from 33 to 70 pounds, armed with a 2.6 to 3-inch death claw; this may upset an avid “Jurassic Zoo” fan, but it is a fact based on modern fossil evidence. Yet, like many fields of science, paleontology is constantly changing as fossils continue to be excavated.

In 1991, a new species of raptor was found in eastern Utah. It was later named Utahraptor ostrommaysorum (ah-strom-ay-sore-um, is the species name) in 1993 by paleontologists James Ian Kirkland, Robert Gaston and Donald Burge. The genius name Uhtahraptor means robber from Utah, and it was twenty-four-foot-long and six-foot to seven-feet-tall. Utah raptor weighed approximately 1500 pounds and like all raptors, its second toe on each foot held a sickle slaying doom that reached nine to fifteen inches long in contrast to Deinonychus’s (Di-no-nike-us) second toed sickle shaped claw that was a massacring five to seven inches.

Until the discovery of Utahraptor, Deinonychus, along with terror birds (avian-dinosaurs), have always been my favorite dinosaurs. A chill of excitement shot through me because two Deinonychus were with in reach, all I would have to do is touch their fossils and in moments be with them when they thrived. My whole life I have been obsessed with the past and now prehistoric animals were within reach and seconds away from roaming once again.

As I reach my hand out, I notice something below and to the right. Oh wow, it’s a quadroon of Velociraptors! Four, three foot Velociraptors poised to kill a young Edmontosaurus, (as in Edmonton Canada and the name means Edmonton lizard) which is part of a grouping of herbivorous dinosaurs called hadrosaur (had-dro-sore, meaning duck bill dinosaur). The Duck bill is in a defensive posture-Oh my possible God! Behind this display is another exhibit! I can not believe it is here, a Utahraptor. Oh, it says here, in a bold black text engraved on a plaque encased in glass, which is held by a marble podium, that this Utah Raptor was donated by the Smithsonian in collaboration with Pizza Heaven. I guess that this fast food chain is not as sinister as I had once perceived.

The Utah Raptor’s fossil is dramatically posed with its head and neck stretched outward. Its jaw is wide open displaying jagged teeth that are designed to tear flesh. The Utah raptor’s claws extend outward in attempt to shred this Titania (tie-tian-ea) apart and the Utah Raptor is standing on one foot while the other leg is a few feet off the floor to give the illusion of a running motion. I analyze the leg that is off the ground because the notorious lethal curved claw is closer to my view than the one on the ground, and this particular Utah Raptor had fifteen-inch cycle shaped homicidal claws. Chills rapidly flow through my body in a surge of absolute panic as I imagine the curved claw ripping into my abdominal region, causing my entrails to splatter the ground. The Utahraptor is balanced by its stiff tail, this particular Utahraptor is the longest so far discovered, at 24 feet in length (from head to tail) and is 6.6 feet tall, weighing an estimated 1,590 pounds when it was fully fleshed out and roaming.

If I were nature, I would design a Utah Raptor because it was an ultimate massacring machine armed with an arsenal of mincing talons and teeth. This prehistoric hunter could shred apart a grizzly bear. Unlike T-Rex, it was highly intelligent and could perceive with nocturnal vision. The size of its eye’s in relation to its head reminds me of an eagle. Even though the Titania is built with the armor of a four-legged tank, it could have fallen victim to a fatal pack of Utah Raptors.        

I began to reach my hand out to touch the Utah Raptor fossil until I notice behemoth jaws behind the Utah Raptor. To my surprise, it is the jaws of a Megalodon (meg-la-don) the leviathan of the prehistoric sharks that swam the ancient seas. Just like my dream, I explained to my grandma, only it was here as if my dream manifested before me, a dream that Mother Nature once conceived, and allowed to become a prehistoric reality.

Megalodon was a monarch of the deep blue that glided through the oceans with ease for millions of years. Unfortunately, the cartilage body dissolved over time; although, the calcium teeth and jaws stood stronger than the Hercules statue; a piece of art suspended in time. In a caption engraved in bronze lettering on top of a smooth black marble podium, next to the fossilized jaws and teeth of the Megalodon, explains: that for each inch of tooth, add on ten feet; this Megalodon’s teeth is seven inches, which means that these teeth belonged to a seventy-foot shark.

I look into the jaws of Megalodon imagining what kind of prey passed through millions of years ago. Tears began to slide down my face as I observed this relic left by a once unstoppable force that dominated the cretaceous seas, and in a not so-long-ago dream of mine. A dream that nature also dreamt, and decided to make a primordial nightmare for all life forms that swam in Megalodon’s path.

After wiping away some emotions, my attention went strait for the top of the jaws, although, something above in the background caught my attention causing my focus to shift from the jaws of the foreground to high above in the back ground where a thin tip of a tail curves in a u shape. Instantly, my mind leaps to a conclusion that this tail belongs to a sauropod dinosaur. Sauropods are a subgroup of immense herbivorous dinosaurs with a long necks and tails such as Apatosaurus and Diplodocus. The late Triassic and Jurassic period gave rise to the Sauropods because oxygen levels were at there highest, allowing herbivorous animals of mammoth proportions to dominate the land.

A scale so incredible, nature has never been able to surpass such land animals since the Mesozoic (the age of the dinosaurs), from the Triassic 245 million years ago to the Cretaceous 65 million years ago. Ever wonder how paleontologist can estimate the oxygen and carbon levels from the past. It is possible because of fossilized tree sap called amber which contains tiny suspended air bubbles. In these bubbles, are trapped oxygen and carbon. Paleontologist can drill into these bubbles and extract data that was once apart of a prehistoric atmosphere.    

With such minimal time, I have over looked this Sauropod fossil by using fixated tunnel vision on the raptors and Megalodon. My head scans the entire length of the tail all the way back to its wide bloated body and long neck. At the end of its neck, a miniature head is attached to an eighty-foot skeleton; this fossil must belong to an eighty-foot Apatasaurus (A-pat-a-sarus). The girth of its leg bones and bloated midsection is astounding.

Apatasaurus lived in the late Jurrasic period, and died out before the Cretaceous, and is commonly known to most people as brontosaurus because people are unaware that this dinosaur had been reclassified. It was once thought that Apatasaurus and Brontosaurus were two different species, until years later, paleontologist realized that these two species were the same dinosaur. Since Apatasaurus was the first name chosen, paleontologists decided to drop the name Brontosaurus.

Until recently, re-examinations by some paleontologist claim Brontosaurus is a separate species once again because it has a different neck shape than an Apatasaurus (The Atlantic, “The Brontosaurus Wants To Know: What Is A Species, Really” April, 2015). Since I’m not 100% convinced, I will still say Apatasaurus. That’s what makes science exhilarating, it is not absolute like most religions because new discoveries constantly occur! However, I do have a profound nostalgia for the name Brontosaurus, but it is not so profound that I would allow it to cause an emotional biased.

Who knows how many other classification mistakes have taken place? There could still be dinosaur fossils that are of the same species; yet, considering their sizes may have been placed as a separate species, instead of being placed in different age categories. Pride could also be interfering with paleontology. If a paleontologist names his or her own excavated fossil that was thought to be a new species, only to find out later on that their find is just a younger or older fossil belonging to a species that has already been discovered; he or she might want to bury the truth in order to preserve their name. And how much has sexual dimorphism been considered in the classification of dinosaurs as well? Sexual dimorphism is a feature that varies in gender, for example male peacocks are gorgeously ornamented; were as the peahens are a dull brown. Maybe a female Dilophosaurus (dy-lof-o-sawr-us) did not display a double boney vibrant crest on top of its head and a male did, in order to attract a female or to intimidate rival males?

 “Attention visitors, the museum will be closing in fifteen minutes, please start making your way towards the exits. The museum will be closing in fifteen minutes, thank you for visiting the Fuller Museum of Natural History.”

Shit, I have gone on an internal monologue tangent! I only have fifteen minutes left. What do I do? What period in time do I visit? As I stare at Apatasaurus, I contemplate going to the late Jurassic epoch. I decide to look one last time with my hand.

“Sir, you are not allowed to touch the fossils. Sir, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t,” I thought to my self sarcastically, while I retracted my hand from the fossil that I was unable to touch.

“The museum is closing and you are never allowed to touch the fossils. Sir, I have to ask you to leave.”

“But we still have about fifteen minutes.”

“You lost that time as soon as you tried touching the dinosaur. This isn’t a toy store; those are rare fossils that we can not risk damage to.”

“Just five more minutes, please!” I shout with force.

The security guard radios for back up, followed by a static crinkle.

“I have a situation in the Dino-room, request back up, over.”

“Roger that, were on our way. Do you copy?”

“Ten four,” the sentry who called for backup responded.

What is my deal with museum security guards? Seconds later, museum sentries are closing in all around me like a pack of vicious Utahraptors ready to seal their preys doom. I dart off for the Utahraptor display, but there are too many guards in that direction, so I do an unexpected U-turn, and leap through the Megalodon Jaws; those bastards did not expect that move. I will shoot through a side exit that leads to the Native American section. Towards the back of the Native American rooms, there is an exit where I can circle back to the prehistoric rooms. Only this time, instead of the dinosaurs, I head for the ancient mammal displays because this exhibit is closer to the Native American section.

 I am sprinting towards the entrance to the first prehistoric mammal room.  Above the entrance reads a rectangular sign stating, “The La Brea Tar Pits”. As I enter the room, to my left close to a wall, a six-foot-long Nothrotherium (Noth-ro-thee-ree-um) fossil captures my gaze. Nothrotherium is a prehistoric ground sloth that was towered by another ancient ground sloth which is called Megatherium (Meg-a-thee-ree-um), a twenty-foot giant. Unfortunately, according to the exhibits excavated from the La Brea Tar pits, Megatherium was not discovered in this tar pit; however, both species of ground sloth existed in the Pleistocene, the era of the Ice Age.

The Nothrotherium ground sloth’s fossil has been constructed to stand on its hind legs like a fierce grizzly bear ready for combat. Surrounding the ground sloth, are three fossils of dire wolves (which are twice the size of a grey wolf). To the right of the ground sloth display, is an exhibit of three Bison Antiquus (an-tik- wus) being stalked by a posed saber tooth cat fossil identified as the species Smiladon califronicus (Smi-lo-don cali-fro-ni-cus) displayed to look like it is ready to pounce onto one of the bison and devour it. In the middle of the room, a line up of ancient horse fossils take center stage, along with two giant armadillo fossils called Gylptodon (Gilp-to-don). So far, these were all animals found in the Los Angeles, California La Brea tar pits.  

Towards the back of the room, a reenactment of the La Brea tar pit is on display. In the pseudo-tar pit, a grouping of fully fleshed, fury sculptures demonstrate what it would have been like for prehistoric animals to be trapped and devoured by the tar pits. A furry ground sloth (Nothrotherium) sculpture strikes a fearful pose with its eye’s wide open; while its forepaws are raised above its head, trying to resist the pit from swallowing it any further than past its waist. Of course, any violent struggle would only quicken the sinking inevitable fate. Next to the ground sloth is a deeply submerged ancient bison (Bison Antiquus) and on its back is a saber toothed cat (Smilodon Californicus) roaring with its head tilted up into attack position ready to seek its saber teeth into the bison’s back like a pair of calcium based daggers.

Rapidly, I try to visually digest these displays, but it is too late, museum sentinels have finally found me, the hunt may end soon if I don’t think of something. I scan the room and notice a door that reads employees only. Impulsively, I explode through the unlocked employee door hurrying down a curved stair case, which leads to a hallway of doors on each side. While sprinting midway down the hall, a wood door steals my interest because it has a ten-inch- rectangular-sign nailed to it that reads: storage room. Damn it; it’s locked, no matter, my foot acts as a battering ram flinging the door wide open. Any second now museum sentries should be swarming around this storage room. I see some incomplete Velociraptor fossil fragments displayed on shelves. Further down are plastic containers of fossils, from all periods, the Permian, Triassic, Jurassic, and a tub of Utah Raptor talons from the Cretaceous.

Damn it, the sentinels are flooding through the storage room’s doorway armed to the teeth with flash lights. They probably do not even have hand cuffs, even if they did, my hands are free, and I’m touching a Utahraptor death talon.

“Hold it right there!”

“Or what, you’ll shine flash lights at me.”

As soon as my sarcasm was lashed off my tug, my Pyschomic touch releases energy from the curved raptor talon, causing a dark opening to form behind the shelves of fossils containers. One of the guards pulls out some pepper spray, as I knock over one of the shelves that was blocking me from the portal, were as now; the shelf is leaning against the wall, barricading me from them, in this narrow room with the floor covered in spilled fossils and plastic containers. The guard sprays his pepper spray and I shield my face with a cupped hand over my eyes, while diving through the portal.

When my matter collides with the anti-matter in the portal, I disappear in a bursting flash that I can actually see; even though my eyes are closed and covered with my hands. When I open my eyes, things were different while drifting, I caught a glance through earth’s window of time. After my glimpse of Primordial earth, astonishingly, I am now able to fully see earth evolving in a swift time lapse.

Perhaps, the Utah Raptor talon I touched to trigger my drifting, had previously absorbed energy from the other fossil’s it was surrounded by, which is causing me to see what I am now. From a grand aerial view like a stationary satellite, I gaze upon Pangaea, the once ultra-continent that contained all of earth’s land creatures before separating over extensive amounts of time. Pangaea is derived from Latinized meanings; pan, means “entire” and gaea represents earth.

In the early Permian period, approximately 250 million years ago, the world was just a sphere of deep blue surrounding a tremendous primitive   continent that would drift apart over millions of years into seven continents. Yet, in seconds I am witnessing millions of years passing before my eyes. In the beginning of the Permian, Pangaea was a parched continent that contained minute life. Until, a split second later, the vast desert sprouts many small patches of vegetation. The ground is starting to push upwards to develop mountains which soon erupt, spurting out half-mile-high geysers of magma that form cascading orange rivers of lava, flowing and cooling, adding to Pangaea’s great land mass. I see ash clouds forming and then abruptly dissipating to expose new   land masses created from cooled lava that had been extinguished by the ancient ocean know as Panthalassa (meaning all the sea). Earth quakes cause mounds of earth to push upwards to build additional mountains and hills.

The atmosphere quickly changes to obstruct my view, and then clears, this rainy process keeps repeating only to create more rivers and lakes, which help sculpt the land. Long darting rivers dry to become small gorges, a few more seconds pass, and larger water masses are created only to dry again, giving birth to new valleys and hills. While certain regions dry, other land becomes enveloped by water. My observation of Pangaea’s evolution is mesmerizing, my grandpa once said, “Math is the language of the universe,” and now I am experiencing a miniscule fraction of this language in an accelerating duration.  

The first stage of Pangaea breaking apart happened in the early to middle Jurassic period, (about 150 million years ago) which I am watching happen from my aerial vantage point. Pangaea is dividing into two super continents called Gondwanaland and Laurasia. Both continents contain even more diversity of water masses: denser plant life, flat lands, and larger mountain terrain than Pangaea. Now, the velocity of earth’s time accelerates once more allowing me to already witness the second main stage of separation, which involves Gondwanaland and Larasia splitting into four continents, Africa: South America, India, and Antarctica/Australia.

 I observe these prehistoric landmasses drifting apart in miraculous rapidity, until the time lapse unexpectedly slows to a normal pace. It is now around the late Cretaceous period. I gaze with wonder and amazement from my high vantage point, contemplating all of the ancient organisms that thrive below me. The Cretaceous period is an era when T-Rex up held its majesty on the thrown of apex predators to prevail as the Tyrant Bird King; although, Utah- raptors seem like worthy opponents for his majesty. Utah Raptors had larger brains and were swifter. It is estimated that raptors could reach cheetah speeds; plus, these ruthless predators hunted in packs armed with the deadliest talons in the prehistoric animal kingdom. The claws were strategically placed on their second toes by evolution to rise off the ground to avoid dulling while running or walking. In attack mode, these lethal claws could be fixed forward. Utah Raptors also have large eyes in proportion to their heads, comparable to any modern bird of prey (raptor), such as an eagle or a hawk. After a series of cat scans preformed on the head of Utahraptor fossils by paleontologists, it has been discovered that raptors have remarkable night vision similar to an owl.

As I ponder prehistoric predators from above, my curiosity reaches a pinnacle, until something quickly pulls me away from my celestial out look, pulling me towards a moment in approximately the late-Cretaceous. It is there, somewhere on primordial earth where I am greeted with lush vegetation. My equal Librium is not disoriented, yet, my mind spins with many thoughts of wonder, and just before I could ponder anything else, I hear a high-pitch screech that carries across the skies. As I look up, my eye’s capture the image of a gliding Quetzalcoatlus (Kwet-zal-ko-at-lus), which is the largest Pterosaur (the order of ancient flying lizards) to ever live. Quetzalcoatlus was named after the Aztec God Quetzalcoatl. Quetzalcoatlus confirms my estimate that this is the late Cretaceous period in North America.

Most people are familiar with referring to these flying reptiles by calling them Pterodactyls, which is a shorten word for Pterodactyloidea, the term for the suborder of flying reptiles, and Quetzalcoatlus is the genus name of this soaring wonder and the species name is Quetzalcoatlus northropi. To completely take in this brilliant sight, I leave my camouflaged region of plant life so I can try to follow this red gliding goliath.  

Sprinting with all my might on an open field, I try to examine this magnificent animal flying below the cloudy sky. My vantage point is now allowing me to see that the soaring leviathan has a reddish-brown under belly with huge crimson wings. I contemplate the average length of a Quetzalcoatlus wing span. Quetzalcoatlus has been documented to be about 35-38 feet long, however; the pterosaur has made a U-turn, and is now passing over my head. Although, its body is flying low enough; which gives me a scale of reference as it passes by two large trees that are across from each other separated by land that is close to the distance of the pterosaur’s wing span. This Quetzalcoatlus is about forty-five foot-long, and it is losing altitude. I think the pterosaur is going to land near by, in a panic, I run towards a lush gathering of plant life.

The Cretaceous location I have arrived on has many sporadic locations of dense foliage Dalmatian spotting the land. The plant life coverage gives me a safe hidden observation of Quetzalcoatlus landing. Its winged membranes fold inward, and it starts to crawl around like a gargantuan cretaceous bat. Quetzalcoatlus’s neck is longer than a giraffe, which can help it scout the area for potential threats. Imagine a twelve-foot neck rising from its bat crawling body; the scene is both fascinating and frightening.

The Quetzalcoatlus appears to be eating a nest of younglings. To far away to tell what species, never the less, it is gorging. The Quetzalcoatlus’s beak is lengthy, about 6 feet in length. The beaks girth is approximately one foot, but when its beak is open, it becomes an immense pair of sheers clapping down on the infant dinosaurs. The Quetzalcoatlus seems to be swallowing them whole like a modern-day pelican swallowing a fish. As gruesome as this seems, it is nature’s way of balancing the Cretaceous ecosystem.

After inhaling the fifth dinosaur youngling the Quetzalcoatlus quickly turns its head in the direction of me, and then rapidly launches off the ground with both its front and hind legs in an extraordinary leap. The Pterosaur spreads its wings, and in seconds, flaps to gain a fast speed. It has been estimated by paleontologist that Quetzalcoatlus can go from zero to approximately thirty miles an hour and this seems true.

It must have sensed my presence and felt I was a threat. Just then, a thunderous trot comes from the dense foliage that has been concealing me. More scurrying sounds rustle through the plants, gradually gaining a closer distant. The trampling slows and some plants part with a curious head poking out of the foliage. The animal has a duckbill and does not seem to be harmful.

This is clearly a hadrosaur, a grouping of duck-billed herbivorous dinosaurs. Whoa, it’s an Edmontosaurus (Edmon-toe-saurus). Edmontosaurus is walking on all fours with shorter forelimbs and longer robust hind legs. Its hind legs were anchored by three toed hoofed feet and its forelimbs were supported by web like hands. Edmontosaurus stood about fifteen feet, and could reach lengths of fifty-foot long. Its mammoth frame was balanced by a thick straight tail that could be used as a club against predators. This marvelous animal could walk bipedal; however, now it is choosing to walk quadrupedal; perhaps, it wants to feed on low vegetation. The ancient animal took a few more steps before it drops to the ground.

The slamming thud shocks me. Frightened, I back away from it giving myself a six-foot distance from this superb animal. When 3.5 tons plunges to the earth, the ground reacts in a wave of tremors. At that moment, while the Edmontosaurus lies on its side, I notice lacerations on its abdomen. As I walk around the sluggish giant, I see more gashes on its back. Ooh, this is why the Edmontosaurus walked on all fours; it is severely wounded and needs the support of all four legs to hold its injured body. Profusely, the animal hemorrhages a thick burgundy that forms a pool below it. While the duck-bill lays in agony, I notice the cloudy sky becoming darker followed by roaring thunder.

I feel immense remorse for the Edmontosaurus, a rogue hadrosaur, separated from the herd by the ill fate of Cretaceous selection. Now, I know why it was separated from the herd, not only is the Edmontosaurus injured, it is also carrying a weakness that is now being pushed halfway into a dangerous world. The once inward organism now becomes an external liability that its mother will have to protect.

The mother rises to all fours and licks her offspring clean. After cleaning her new born, she nudges at the baby duck-bill to emerge on all fours, when unexpectedly, the infant stands to let out a successful birth yell. The dark sky answers back with menacing thunder and a flash of light. The new born cries out again, and the sky falls with torrential fury onto the mother and her offspring.

I have found refuge under some umbrella like leaves shielding me from most of the rain, but the mother and child are drenched. A brief blast of illumination lights the once dark scene causing more defining thunder. Empathy rushes through me, probably from photographing the nativity of Drake the Grevy’s Zebra. On the contrary, I thought Edmontosaurus laid eggs, instead of giving birth like a mammal. Perhaps the species evolved to give a quick birth in order to keep up with the protection of the herds, resembling zebras and wildebeests. Or maybe its one of those rare acceptations in nature, such as how duck bill platypuses lay eggs, even though their mammals.

Another flash of light fills the scene to reveal two Utahraptors leaping through the air and one Utahraptor charging this primeval Pieta. In the abrupt   burst of light, the raptors appear to have some feathers. The illumination ends in blinking speed causing the scene to turn dim. I see a scurry of attacking silhouettes, when the sky fills with light again; I notice a freeze of rain droplets that nature photographs by using lighting as a flash and I see one of the Utah- raptors air born, and then clubbed by the Edmontosaurus’s tail.

Now, one raptor is critically injured, while another clings onto the mother’s side, and maliciously rakes its thirteen inch claws into her thick, scaly hide, adding to the other lacerations. While on the ground, the other raptor lunges for the offspring and that is when this lighting interval ended. Darkness takes over, but a thunderous sound fills the air, and palpitates the earth, lighting follows this crashing sound, which triggers more thunder. The interval of illumination allows me to see what shook the earth before the thunder. The crashing noise was caused by the Edmontosaurus stomping one of the attackers to death.

The adult Edmontosaurus roars in victory synchronizing along with the thunder as if the storm has betrayed the pack of raptors. Just one more left and it turns toward the direction of me as another flash displays the Utahraptor leaping at me with talons pointed outward to shred me apart. The ascending ancient animal pushes out both a piercing and gut-wrenching roar. It wants to prey on something weaker as its air born; lighting illuminates the soaring threat heading towards me, and I catch a glance of a black leopard spot pattern.

A soaring 1500 pound of devastation lands next to me, just missing as the lighting interval ends. In the darkness, I fall to the ground in horrifying shock. My hands feel around for a rock or jagged branch; instead, my hand grabs something warm and wet like a slithering snake. The snake like coil feels warm, but my body feels cold. The whole-time my hand searches the darkness, I stare at the raptors glowing eyes, the only light source around.

I now realize I’m holding my entrails. As the raptor landed, it swiftly slashed me open, this threw me backwards while temporally unaware that my insides had spilled all over me. Supreme calming over takes my mind and body, as my eyes try to adjust; I notice the silhouetted raptor’s eyes gleaming with menace. It looks me up and down with precise quick analyses; it reminds me of a large hawk. At that moment, it moves in closer with its ominous radiant stare.

I notice its head rapidly tilting up and down, over looking every detail of my carnage. As the raptor scans me, I analyze it during another lighting burst, observing in better detail that the raptor’s black leopard spot pattern covers   reddish-brown feathers. The lighting is followed by another, causing me to see that the Utahraptor has a red Mohawk of feathers on top of its head starting at its forehead, and gradually becomes shorter as it ends midway down its neck. Maybe this is the alpha male of the pack.

My vision turns dim when the duration of light ends, but seconds later another flash unveils two rows of vibrant blue feathers. One sideways row protruding on the left side of the left forearm, and the other row on the right side of the opposite forearm as if evolution is already foreshadowing wings on the ancestors of birds. The sky continues to blast with electricity causing me to observe the blue feathers again. The two rows of vibrant blue forearm feathers start out narrow at the wrist and become broader towards its elbow to complete a feathery horizontal triangle.  At the feathers shortest point by the wrist, the feathers stick out five inches and midway the feathers gradually begin to extend to two-feet, and reaches three-feet by the elbows.

Sensing another attack, I raise my left arm to shield my face. My left arm is stronger than my right arm because it was weakened by bracing my fall when the animal attacked me. My defense only lasts a half second because the raptor clinches its vise grip jaws onto my forearm stripping away flesh and muscle to partially reveal bone. While alarming terror consumes me, I feel nothing because I am starting to go into shock as the raptor feeds on my entrails.

Looking to my right as I lay on my back, I notice its talons next to my right arm that is still fully fleshed. Before being stripped of skin and muscle from the ferocious predator, my left arm was slightly stronger, now the strength shifts to the right arm, and with all my might, I reach out for the fifteen-inch death claw because it is my only chance for life. God fucking damn it, the Utahraptor moved away to scare off something… Oh shit, it’s a pack of Velociraptors trying to capitalize on its prey, which is me, and I am now at the threshold of death. The Utah raptor releases a hissing screech and lunges for the pack of…I think four Velociraptors that scurry away in fear.

Good, the Utah raptor is coming back to gorge, as it approaches it walks while bobbing its head of read feathers like a condor walking towards a dying animal. Without warning, it leaps a distance of about ten feet landing on my leg. The sudden weight causes my upper body to spring forward off the ground in a sitting position. It grips my face and throat with its jaws, and with my Psychomic grasp, I clench the fifteen inch claw that is partially lodged into my hip. Before affixation sets in, calmness dominates all thoughts. At that tranquil moment, I am sent to…………………………………??????????????????..................................  

What’s happening………………….where am…… I…………….??????????????199999999?????????????????????????????????????????????199999999999199999999999999999999999999999991999999999991999999999999999$$$$$$$$$everything$$$$$$%$$$%$$%199999999 199999999becomingBalckVeryVeryBlack!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????????????????????????????$$$$$$$$$$$$$$………………………1999999999999999999919999999999999999999999999999999991999999999999999999999999999999999999999999991999999999999999999999999919999999999999999999999

Still dark, but not as dark as before, my eyes are starting to slowly perceive an abstraction of dark shapes, until my eyes finally have dilated to an appropriate size allowing me to see a bedroom with photography on the walls and movie posters. Some of the photographs are of cityscapes and other imagery is of black and white animals from the zoo. A feeling of deja vu brutally strikes me. The urge to cry fills my eyes. I look at a bed to notice a child sleeping, even though it is dark, a night light plugged into the wall softly illuminates the child’s slumber.

My adjusted vision becomes baffled by the nocturnal scene as I notice how the kid resembles me. It is me. What is happening….and then, the bedroom door opens. A woman walks in to the door way, the hallway lighting causes her to be a silhouetted figure bordered by the door way as if she were another framed photograph on the wall. The shadowy figure passes through the door way as if it were a portal into time. Maybe I’m seeing a moment from my past, and this is my mom getting ready to tell me goodnight. The figure walks over to the bed, and sits on the edge while crying, yet trying to hold it in.

“Mason.”

She softly says in a gentle shaky voice.

“Mason, wake up honey,” she says again in a scratchier slightly louder tone.

Her resistance to explosively sob could no longer be held back.

“Mason, wake up sweetie,” she utters with emotional trembling.

Her voice no longer suppresses emotion. Who are these people?

“Mom, are you okay, why are you crying?”

“It’s okay honey. I’m alright.”

She leans over and kisses her son on the forehead which causes the night light to reveal….….oh my god, she has yellow hair and ……….now I’m starting to remember everything that happened with tears. It’s Megan, and she was kissing our son Mason on the forehead. For the first time in who knows how long, I am lost to find words that could properly express my emotions. All I can do is sob along with Megan.

“Mom, why are you sad?”

Megan continues to weep. Mason sits up and they embrace while crying together. I don’t stop sobbing either because I wish they new how much I miss them. Frustration devours me, why do I have to see this when there is no way for me to interact with them. Since I can’t hold or talk to them, I will just cry along with them. As we sob, my memory that has left out significant details before is now coming back in an onslaught of emotions.

Overwhelmingly, I recall the events leading up to this; I was in a car accident. I only had a few beers, but an on coming driver in the opposite lane had passed out into a drunken induced slumber, causing his car to swerve into the opposite lane: the lane I was driving in at sixty-eight miles per hour. I slammed the breaks while swerving on the road, but I briefly caught an eye full of a red digital sign that was advertising mobile homes for $19,999.99 just before I smashed into it. In this moment, I felt time slow as I was thrown from my seat, if only I had taken an extra second to buckle my seat belt, how absurdly foolish. My seat belt would have been able to prevent inertia from sending me soaring threw the windshield.

The windshield had already been cracked from a hail storm a year before, and when I went through the glass, a cracking spider web formed to broadly expand the hail storm crack in what seemed to be minutes, yet, it happened in approximately 1/1000 of a second, I was moving with such high velocity that my mind slowed the speed of time down. Einstein said, time is relevant to the viewer and when traveling faster, time would appear slower to the viewer. Well, he is right, and the law of inertia states that an object traveling will continue to move until stopped by something else, or some other force. The car was stopped by a large advertisement sign but nothing could seem to slow my flight.

At first, fear tightly closed my eyes, but I forced them open because I wanted to try and see the last moment of my life. I had always been envious of birds because these avian deities could fly with just a thought. If a Peregrine falcon (fastest organism in the sky, can dive-bomb around 240 mph) wanted to be air born, it just thought about flapping its wings and could take flight. I did not have wings, yet I was flying at sixty miles per hour. With my eyes open, fear no longer prevailed, instead; my mind was driven by exhilaration. I could finally soar like a direct descendent of dinosaur Theropods (bipedal carnivorous dinosaurs such as raptors and T-Rex).

While soaring, I saw the rushing, blurred ground below me, until my vision was replaced by a montage of memories projected in my mind like a silver screen. I saw myself and grandma planting an oak tree. Flicker forward to when grandpa tried to teach me how to use a calculator, but I refused to learn it. Leap forward again to Grandma, Grandpa, dad, mom, and me riding in a car looking out of my window at an atrocious automobile accident. I felt distressed, yet imagined that the accident was caused by Godzilla to reduce the trauma. Then I saw grandma handing me a cup of her flavorful hot coco, and the spoon she carefully placed on the kitchen table, which I used for my first memorable psychometry reading.                                          

Leap even further to Megan and I holding each other in bed, just looking into her incredibly gorgeous amber spheres, we found out later that this was the night mason was conceived. Now I’m witnessing the birth of Mason. Flicker even further to Meagan, mason, and I swimming in the apartment pool. Jump forward again, to me showing Mason how to use my camera. Then flash to Meagan staring into my eyes. Before her, I never gazed too long into someone’s eyes because I was always afraid to fall for that person, but with her it was different; the first time I looked into her amber orbs, they reflected me, and I saw myself falling for her. A calming feeling came over me, like when I was under the colossal oak tree.

A realization has occurred, the reason why I felt comfortable under the oak tree was because it felt like Megan was there comforting me. While remembering how my back leaned against the oak tree overlooking the sunflower field, I felt like an oxymoron. My marriage with her was filled with distrust and discontent; yet, being with her, I still felt security even though I did not fully trust her. She always needed attention from other people, though when I tired to express my love, she pushed me away. My worst fear was that she had been unfaithful. I wanted to confront her about this, but was afraid she would leave Mason and I, just like my mom left my father and myself.

I was discontent with being in her shade because she wanted to be the only one to emerge into the spot light, although; her attention seeking caused me to have unfaithful thoughts that I almost acted upon. None of that matters now because Mason will be the one to grow and he seems taller than I recall. He will surpass the oak tree to become a Redwood; Megan does not have a choice in that, Mason will develop into the tallest organism on planet earth. His curiosity and imagination exceeds both sides of the family. We created an embodiment of us and as long as Mason lives on earth apart of me will too. For once, my mind is starting to reach peace.

Surprisingly, Megan seems to have become a nurturing mother like my Grandm…………

“Its okay honey, I believe that Warren can see us.

“Do you think he’s with us right now?”

“I feel like he is, and one day we will be with him”

She says as she closes her eyes and hugs Mason again.

I don’t know what is happening; my soul is becoming illuminated causing a sensation of harmony to course through out my spirit. My glow can be seen by me as I look down at myself. I am becoming an intense light source. I wonder if…

“Look over there Mom.”

As Warren Navarro ponders, perceives, and hears his family with his old consciousness for the last time, his essence takes on a metamorphosis that will carry him to the next realm. Limbo is a realm where spirits roam to evaluate their lives, to ventilate any annoyances they might be experiencing. Limbo is a place between both earth and the gateway to the other regions. It is also a time to prepare for abandonment from material possession: from ego, from revenge, and any other impure thoughts.

Death is exceedingly confusing for an old consciousness to grasp; a spirit maybe in denial for centuries or even millenniums because the truth is hard to comprehend. Many times, a spirit’s human mind can not let go, it feels the need to hang on: especially for love ones. When souls can accept his or her new reality, they can successfully shed their human mind, which enables spirits to form a neo-awareness that will project them to the next region.

Warren was a psycohmetrist while living, although, he manifested a subconscious suedo-reality in the limbo realm, which gave him a chance to do things that were not possible on earth, such as drifting, but were essential for Warren to feel he achieved in order to accept his fate, which liberated his spirit from denial. The disorientation Warren sometimes felt from drifting was really an off balance of confusion felt by a spirit after it leaves a human body. In a dream, one can experience some of the senses, in limbo, one can endure all the senses at once and Warren became a semi-lucid limbo explorer.

Each spirit has its own expedition to take. These journeys can display them self through the entities subconscious during the limbo realm. However, Warren had a unique mind; his genetic gifts caused him to have more control than others. His command over anger enabled him to handle seeing his family for the last time. It sometimes takes prematurely released spirit’s centuries to let go of this last and final phase; this is why sometimes people report seeing apparitions. If a spirit in the past life was sinister, then he or she may become a poltergeist that will haunt with the intent to even out a pain once felt on earth.

If a spirit in limbo once had a caring mind, it will become a peaceful phantasm. What surprises me is that Warren’s conciseness was content with only one last goodbye. Perhaps, he knew it would just be prolonging the inevitable, and decided not to linger like a shadow that never fades. He probably wanted his family to try and reach peace, as will Warren when his energy unites with his grandmother’s spirit to become pure perpetual illumination that will project them to the next.